The Garish Light of Day
by charleygirl
Summary: Sequel to Beyond the Green Baize Door. Erik tries to adjust to an existence in the daylight, dealing with the women in his life and the world above ground. #53. Wedding bells.
1. Angel of the Morning

**Author's Note:**

****Welcome to the sequel to _Beyond the Green Baize Door_!

This story picks up almost immediately where the first left off, and will be told in a similar style with a series of interconnected vignettes which will hopefully build into a coherent plot once I get things sorted.

I don't usually like titles taken from the libretto, but _The Garish Light of Day_ suited my intentions perfectly.

* * *

**ANGEL OF THE MORNING**

The light was blinding.

It may only have been from the weak winter sun, but the brilliance after so long spent in the darkness of the cellars, illuminated by nothing more than candles and the orange flame of a gas lamp was enough to force Erik to halt on the threshold, a hand flung over his eyes. A loud thumping resounded in his ears, a noise he dimly realised was his own heartbeat. Trying desperately to calm himself he leant against the rusting gate behind him; after a moment or two his hectic breathing calmed and he made himself lower his arm to properly take a look at his surroundings.

He blinked several times, adjusting his vision to the unaccustomed brightness. When was the last time he ventured out of doors during the hours of daylight? He found he couldn't remember. On the odd occasion he spent all night up on the roof of the Opera House watching the stars he had stayed just long enough to watch the dawn wash its shades of red and gold across the deep blue sky before he retreated below, fleeing from the march of day and the waking city as though the touch of the sun's rays might burn him. He was a creature of the night, the darkness a cocoon, a safety net. He belonged here, in the shadows; in their comforting embrace he could disappear completely. In the dark, appearances did not matter, differences went unremarked. In the dark, he could pretend to himself that he was a normal man, that those distortions of body and soul which had condemned him to live his life apart from the rest of the human race simply did not exist. Those fantasies did not last for long, it was true, but in the small hours of the morning they had afforded him some comfort.

With trembling fingers he reached up to tug the brim of his hat further across the right side of his face. He knew that he had to move, to make that first step into the outside world, but he could not. The Rue Scribe, the street onto which the gate led, might as well have been as wide as the Champs Elysées; he became entranced by the way the sunlight fell upon the pavement and cobbles, filtering through the gaps between buildings and glancing from the window panes, dappling even the straw and refuse which lay in the gutters. Somehow he had forgotten the effects the sun could have, the subtle play of light and shade. Now that he had allowed himself to look, to let his gaze to travel over what was probably the most mundane of sights, an empty side street first thing in the morning, he found that he could not turn away. For so many years he shunned the light, the world above his head... could he actually have missed it?

No. Erik squeezed his eyes shut. While the daytime might have its superficial attractions, he could not be blind to its dangers, its inherent ugliness. Light was unmerciful; it had never been kind to him. It aided and abetted those who saw him only to jeer and mock, who regarded him as a lesser form of life than themselves. He shuddered at the memory of lanterns and torches thrust close to the bars so that the beast, the freak might be seen more clearly. On one occasion a determined onlooker had snatched a blazing club from the fire-eater, shoving it so far into the cage the Erik had almost been set alight; he could still smell the burning pitch even now. Light, unless it was under his control, was no friend of his.

"Erik?" The sound of a sweet voice speaking his name made him jump. When he opened his eyes Christine stood before him, a soft smile on her face and her gloved hand outstretched, and he realised that he had unconsciously drawn back into the shadows of the passageway. "It's all right; there's no one here."

Tentatively he reached out to take her hand; she closed her slender fingers around his, attempting to draw him from his sanctuary, but he held firm. Cowardice it may have been, but he could not bring himself to emerge fully into the brightness outside. He wanted to hang his head in shame; what must she think of him, the mighty Opera Ghost, reduced to a terrified child!

"Erik, it's all right," she said again when he did not answer. "I know this must be difficult for you; the first step is always the worst."

A step; yes, that's all it was, but it felt as though that one step was over the edge of a precipice. Once he walked away from the Rue Scribe gate there would be nowhere to hide. He would be subject to stares and scrutiny; people they passed would no doubt wonder who he was, what lay behind the mask and how the man wearing it had come to have such a beautiful young woman on his arm. Becoming the Phantom had allowed him to build a wall around his heart, to assert his dominance and crush the fear and doubt beneath his heel... how disturbingly easy it was for the whole facade to come crashing down.

Almost as though she had read his mind, Christine squeezed his hand and said, "No one will be watching. I'll look after you, I promise."

He laughed, a sharp, humourless sound. "Oh, Christine. It is I who should be saying that to you." Glancing up at her from beneath the wide brim of his hat, he met her eyes and felt his throat thicken at the sight of the sympathy in their brown depths. "Do you think me the most pathetic creature alive?"

Christine stood on tiptoe to kiss him on his exposed cheek. "No," she told him as she drew back, resting her left hand on top of the right which encircled his own. The grained leather of her gloves felt strange against his skin. "You are merely showing that you are human, and there is nothing wrong in that."

Erik regarded her with something akin to awe. Over the past two weeks, as he lay recuperating five floors below the Opera, he had felt like pinching himself more than once, scarcely able to believe that this amazing woman, who could have had anything in the world should she but ask for it, had chosen to give it all up for him. Whenever he was with her he could hardly relax, convinced that at any moment God might decide to smite him down for presuming so much, for finally experiencing happiness at such a late hour in his miserable life. It was a ridiculous thought, but one he could not dislodge, however hard he tried. Christine frowned slightly, her head on one side, as he gazed at her. "I'm sorry," he said, mentally shaking himself. "Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?"

She looked confused for a moment before a smile, a wide, warm, affectionate smile, spread across her face. Bending down, she picked up the carpet bag from where it lay by his feet; he had dropped it heedlessly when he emerged from the tunnel and now she hefted it in one of her hands, using the other to gently coax him out of the shadows. "Come on," she said, "Madame Giry will be waiting for us."

As she moved the sun glanced from the curls which escaped the chignon into which they had been twisted, picking out brilliant auburn amidst the mahogany brown. Loose strands touched her forehead and clustered around her ears, brushing the soft curve of her jaw. Away from the shifting shadows cast by lanterns or guttering candles, her skin almost seemed to glow; her cheeks were pink, stung with colour by the chilly breeze that he had not really felt until that moment. The blue of her cloak and the crimson scarf around her neck threw her into sharp relief against the grey and white of the buildings surrounding them; she could almost have been painted fresh, in broad sweeps of an artist's brush, so brightly did she gleam. She looked different, so different that it took him some time to work out why and by that time they were walking down the street, her hand tucked through his good arm as though they were any normal couple.

He had never seen her in the daylight before.

Christine had always been beautiful to him, whether he caught a glimpse of her under the gas lamps of the house by the lake or in the limelight on stage, but out here, away from the perpetual night of his world, that beauty was positively luminous. Some might believe that angels were perfect, golden beings burnished by God's hand, flawless and unblemished, but Erik disagreed. _His_ angel had no need of any celestial polish; she might have a nose that was a fraction too long and a scar on her chin that could only been seen when the sun kissed her face, but he felt her warm, graceful figure at his side, watched the bounce of her lustrous curls and the sparkle in those coffee-coloured eyes and knew that no entity sent from Heaven could match her.

Best of all, she was willing to take the hand of a creature born into darkness and lead him towards the light. He only hoped he would prove worthy.


	2. Happy Families

**HAPPY FAMILIES**

It was rather like sharing your home with a wild animal, Meg mused, never knowing when it might bite or scratch. A stray dog, kicked and beaten, would regard a hand held out with confusion, misinterpreting your tentative attempts at kindness and friendship because it had no frame of reference and didn't understand what you were trying to do. How could it, if the only reason a hand had been extended towards it before was to cause pain and humiliation?

The Phantom, the Opera Ghost, the Living Corpse, or simply Erik to those select few who knew him well, had been on the fringes of Meg's life for more than a decade. Though she never met him face to face until very recently, she was always aware that there was another person taking her mother's attention; inquisitive and perceptive, even as a child she did not miss Madame Giry's frequent absences from their little apartment, had puzzled over the extra food which appeared on a regular basis in the wicker shopping basket. It was only after she joined the corps de ballet at the Opera and saw the way the management deferred to their ballet mistress as she delivered the notes and instructions from 'the Phantom' that Meg began to carefully put two and two together. The other dancers were targeted for pranks and frights from OG, but she never was. None of her belongings went missing, and if she caught a glimpse of a cloak disappearing around a corner or spotted the gleam of a white mask high up in the flies she felt no terror, only curiosity.

It was strange, therefore, to be within a few feet of the man she had wondered about for so long. A practical girl, unlike her superstitious fellows she had not believed that the Ghost was real, a wraith or spectre haunting the corridors of the theatre. Ghosts could not write letters, drop sandbags and backcloths or teach a chorus girl to sing like a nightingale, any more than they were capable of making Carlotta croak like a toad or send a chandelier plummeting into the auditorium. Meg had been fascinated by tales of the elusive Phantom, by the aura of power and fear that one man could wrap around the Opera and everyone in it; she longed to know exactly who he was, and why he should feel the need to hide behind such an elaborate deception.

Now she did. The charade had ended, the facade crumbled, and the Phantom was nothing more than human, sleeping in the bed she had given up for him, sitting in her late father's armchair and filling the flat with his formidable presence. He did not intend to, she was sure, but he sometimes made her nervous. Tall and broad shouldered, though almost painfully thin, he dominated their tiny living space; he had to duck under lintels and when he sat before the fire his legs stretched across the rag rug almost to Meg's own chair. Her mother, having no ballet rats to train at present, treated him almost as a project, trying to rectify his gauntness by piling food onto his plate and keeping up a constant stream of advice which eventually had Erik's strong white fingers clenching into fists at his sides. Meg wanted to tell him to ignore the nagging, that Madame Giry spoke to everyone in the same way, but she didn't quite dare. It was one thing to be bright and chatty when he was a convalescent confined to his bed, or had her best friend at his side; quite another if you were facing his brooding, masked countenance across the breakfast table. One wrong word could raise his hackles, could bring cold fury to the side of his face not hidden by the mask. Several times over the past few weeks apparently innocent conversations had ended with Erik retreating into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him so forcefully that the pictures on the wall swung madly back and forth.

He was missing his own home and the solitude it provided, of that she was certain though he never said as much. It was quite obvious that he had not lived in such close proximity to others in a very long time, if he ever had at all. To the outside world he was a cousin of Madame Giry's, come to stay so that he might promote his work in Paris and try to find a publisher for his compositions, but behind the doors of the apartment it was hard to imagine a more awkward family group. Erik was used to pleasing himself, keeping his own irregular hours; fitting in with a household was something that he just did not understand. Sometimes he stayed up all night, and they would find him exactly as they had left him, still in his chair before the cold remains of a fire, a piece of paper covered with staves and hastily scribbled notes spread across his knee; at others he would go to bed early and sleep until noon, forcing the Girys to creep past his door lest they waken him and unleash his temper. On one occasion, when Christine was visiting, Meg had accidentally walked in on them when her friend was patiently explaining the need to think of others as well as one's self. Not wishing to cause embarrassment, Meg tiptoed away before they realised she was there; when she mentioned the incident to her mother, Madame Giry gave a sigh of relief and declared that of anyone could tame Erik it would be Christine. "After all," she said, "Christine is the only person he ever listens to!"

* * *

Time was passing, disturbingly quickly.

Meg hummed to herself as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She had discovered a note pinned to her pillow when she awoke that morning, her mother's neat handwriting informing her that she had gone to speak to an old friend about some possible employment. Meg knew which old friend she meant: Madame d'Herblay, a former ballerina who had retired after an injury which left her unable to dance en pointe and now ran a select academy for the daughters of the aspiring and wealthy middle classes, teaching them deportment and the correct way to waltz. Privately, Meg thought that she would rather walk over red hot coals than deal with a crowd of giggling schoolgirls, but she knew as well as Madame Giry that grateful as they were for Erik's financial assistance they could not live upon his charity forever. With the Opera Populaire still closed, they would have no choice but to seek a situation elsewhere.

It was a depressing thought, and Meg sighed, wistfully remembering the opulent interior of the theatre, the fantastic set pieces and the boxes full of the fashionable cream of society. Almost unconsciously she stood upon her toes, moving across the kitchen in time to the tune in her head as she prepared crockery and jars of jam and marmalade on the battered table that was barely big enough for three people. She had been dancing for almost as long as she could remember, her body falling into routines and rhythms that were as natural to her as breathing in and out; even with no rehearsals to attend, no performance that evening she kept up her exercises, as much for herself as for her mother, who would expect nothing less. Waiting for the kettle to boil and holding the back of a chair in lieu of a barre, she executed a grand plie, followed by an eleve and tendu and ending with a rond de jambe. The latter was a movement which earned the ballet chorus much scolding from Madame Giry when they were tired or sloppy and they all dreaded the extra rehearsals she would inflict upon them.

As she straightened, she felt eyes upon her and was startled to see Erik standing in the doorway. He had approached without making a sound, and she pulled her wrap closer around herself, self-conscious even though she was wearing a very thick nightgown and the former Phantom himself was in a similar state of undress, his hair ruffled by sleep and his richly coloured oriental robe covering his bedclothes. Seeing this, Meg relaxed slightly; he looked less the commanding Opera Ghost and more like the wounded man she had helped Christine in nursing five storeys below the Opera House.

"My apologies," he said as the kettle whistled. Before she could move he picked up a cloth and swiftly removed it from the heat, placing it on the table with a hopeful little smile. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Relieved, Meg smiled back, fetching cups and tea leaves. "You didn't. I was just... surprised to see you up so early."

Erik ran a hand over the visible side of his face and tried to contain a yawn. "That woman selling mackerel on the corner woke me. Then the milkman arrived, and the coalman with his appallingly tuneless whistling..."

"I should have warned you." She splashed milk into a cup, and offered the sugar bowl; he shook his head, and so she busied herself with the kettle and teapot. "It _is_ a little noisy first thing. I'm always tired after a performance so I don't really notice it any more."

Ever the gentleman, he waited for her to sit before taking the seat opposite. Meg wondered idly where he had learnt his impeccable manners; he could certainly teach the so-called nobles who waited with flowers and promises at the stage door and seemed to think that the ballet rats were their property a thing or two. "I should have expected it," he said, uneven lips twisting ruefully. "After the quiet of my cellars, anywhere would seem cacophonous in comparison."

They sat in not-quite-companionable silence for a few minutes, Meg nursing her cup and Erik drinking his tea with a practised tilt to avoid knocking the rim against his mask. He was looking much better, she thought, but held his still-healing left arm stiffly even though he had abandoned the sling as soon as the doctor permitted it. Meg knew he was frustrated that the injury to his shoulder caused by a marksman's bullet prevented him from playing any of his beloved instruments; he had brought his violin from his underground home and cast longing glances towards the ancient upright piano which stood in the corner of the sitting room when he thought no one was looking. She could understand, missing the orchestra and the sound of the beating of her mother's cane on the boards as she called out her criticism and directions, missing losing herself in the music and the dance. Being a ballerina was not just a job, it was her life; the closure of the Opera Populaire had taken away the reason for her existence.

She must have sighed again for Erik glanced at her, eyebrow raised quizzically. "Is something the matter, Little Meg?" he asked with surprising gentleness.

"No," she told him, and his brow lifted higher. There was a pause and then, taking a gulp of her cooling tea, she blurted, "Do you think we'll ever be able to go back to the Opera?"

He leaned back in his chair, apparently very interested in the damp patch in the corner of the ceiling, and said eventually, "I don't know."

"You seemed certain a month ago."

"Then I was sure that those in the Ministry of Arts with a grain of intelligence would not wish to let such an ornament as the Populaire go." Erik's fingers tightened around the handle of his tea cup. "Until those idiots Andre and Firmin arrived, we were riding high in public estimation. Do you remember the reaction we received for _Robert le Diable_?"

Meg did. She had been one of the youngest of the corps then, quite new to the stage. Mathilde, the prima donna before Carlotta's tumultuous arrival, brought the house down with her soaring soprano voice and lavish costumes as the Princess Isabelle. It was the first time that Meg had seen an audience give a unanimous standing ovation; the production was so popular that the run was extended for another month, and the following season they gave another of Meyerbeer's operas, _Margherita d'Anjou, _with similar results. "It was wonderful, exhilarating. I loved it. All I ever wanted to do was dance," she admitted. "Maman said that I was dancing before I could even talk. Out on that stage, the music flowing through me, I always felt like... like someone else. Someone amazing. Does that sound ridiculous?"

Erik's expression, which had begun to contort in impotent fury towards the recently-departed managers, softened. "No," he said. "Not at all."

"When you sang with Christine in _Don Juan_..." Meg hesitated, but he said nothing and so she continued, emboldened, "I knew you were her Angel of Music, but I had no idea your voice was so beautiful. Did you want to perform? When you were younger, that is?"

Still he did not speak, and she began to fear that she had angered him, but at last he released a slow breath and said, "Of course. For a while, just like you it was all I wanted, and I tried hard to convince theatre managers and impresarios that I could. But I quickly learned that no one wants to hear a monster sing, or if they do, it is not grand opera that they wish to hear. Drunken carnival revellers would rather listen to mucky ballads or tales of romantic yearning; if presented with something not to their taste they are quick to express their disapproval."

Curious to a fault, Meg could not help asking, "What did they do?"

"It is not fit for a lady's ears." Erik's mouth became a thin line, and she mentally kicked herself for being so tactless. "Let us say that I still bear the scars and leave it at that."

Silence fell between them once more, punctuated by the ticking of the sitting room clock and the cries of the traders in the street. Meg looked down at her empty teacup. "I'm sorry, Erik," she said. "I did not mean to pry."

For a very long time he did not move, and then, much to her surprise, his large, long-fingered hand reached across the table to brush hers. He withdrew it almost immediately, as if afraid that his touch might offend her, but when she raised her head there was a strange lop-sided smile on his face. "You have done nothing which needs my forgiveness, Meg," he told her. "In fact, you have been very kind to me, and I am grateful."

Blushing, she shook her head. "I need no thanks."

"You are too modest, Little Giry. Hold your head up high, or you will never become a prima ballerina."

Now it was Meg's turn to raise an eyebrow. "That is a dream I can hardly afford to entertain when I am unemployed, and likely to remain so," she said, her tone sharper than she intended.

Abruptly, Erik stood, sweeping the cups from the table and setting them upon the drainer. "If there is one thing I have learned over the last few weeks, it is to never give up hope." He glanced at her over his shoulder, his mismatched gaze piercing. "The future has yet to be written; anything can happen."

Meg watched him as he began to wash the dishes, an extraordinary man doing the most mundane of tasks, and unaccountably found that she believed him.


	3. An Apple A Day

**AN APPLE A DAY**

"Well, Monsieur Claudin, you are doing very well; far better than I expected given your situation."

Christine hovered unobtrusively in the doorway as Doctor Lambert made his weekly examination. Erik had protested at the suggestion that the physician should continue to visit him, but she insisted; without regular medical supervision she knew he would push himself too hard, dropping back into his former deplorable habits of sleeping little and in awkward positions (usually draped across the keyboard of either piano or organ) and eating only when his body forcibly reminded him that it required nourishment. Her determination to protect his health had almost caused their first major argument; Christine put her foot down, and it was only when both Meg and Madame Giry joined in that he capitulated, muttering something about 'damned interfering females' and shutting himself away in his room.

"What makes you say that?" he enquired now, long fingers buttoning his shirt as the doctor put away his stethoscope. Christine watched, and did not miss the frown of frustration which passed over his face as he fumbled with the mother of pearl fastenings, his left hand less nimble than it should be. She knew better than to offer assistance in front of Lambert; Erik's pride was fragile and easily wounded, and she would not embarrass him.

Lambert closed his bag and straightened. "You must admit that your circumstances are unusual, and your former living conditions far from ideal. I am glad to see that you are receiving proper nourishment, which is essential to the healing process, but I could wish for more. Fresh air, for example, is most beneficial; I can imagine that there is little enough in the cellars of the Opera, but here it is in plentiful supply. And exercise: a light stroll in the park, perhaps - "

"Am I likely to die, Monsieur?" Erik asked sharply, interrupting.

"Not now, no," the doctor replied, surprised. "The wound is healing well and I do not envisage complications."

"Then it would appear that this conversation is somewhat redundant. Do you not think so?"

"I am only trying to do my best for you as my patient, Monsieur," Lambert told him, obviously trying to restrain the annoyance that Erik's truculence was causing him. "Your strength is returning, and if you wish to make a complete recovery you would do well to consider my advice carefully and act upon it. It is quite clear that you regard my continuing attendance as an intrusion, but I would not be a physician if I allowed a patient to be cavalier with his health. There is little point in my having saved your life if you show no concern for it yourself."

Christine mentally applauded. She was learning that sometimes the former Phantom could be very much like a petulant child, used to having his own way in all things. Having had no one but himself to worry about for most of his life, he deeply resented interference from others, lashing out at those who thwarted him; the hapless managers of the Opera Populaire could testify to that. The only way to deal with him in these moods was to be firm and refuse to back down, something that was much easier now, without the threat that he might destroy an expensive set piece or drop an eight tonne chandelier from the rafters. She had apologised to Doctor Lambert more than once on his behalf; Erik was not used to people trying to help him, and he had no idea how to behave around them.

He noticed her lurking by the door and held out his good hand to her. "Do you see the lectures you inflict upon me?" he asked, fixing her with a stern glare.

"They are for your own good," she told him, allowing herself to be drawn to his side. "I know you have little interest in your own well being, but you could at least have a care for my sake."

"Mademoiselle Daae is right," Lambert said, and earned himself one of Erik's gimlet stares. To his credit, the Doctor did not bat an eyelid, apparently having resigned himself to being glowered at by his strange masked patient.

"You are confident in her support, Monsieur," Erik replied, returning his gaze to Christine. "And you, my dear: I did not think you would betray me so soon."

"It is not betrayal, it is concern." She pecked him on the cheek. "I never want to be as scared again as I was when I thought I might lose you."

"Oh, Christine." His expression softened and he pulled her closer, immediately contrite. "I'm sorry. That was unfair of me."

"I forgive you. But do listen to the doctor, Erik; he knows what he's talking about," Christine said. "I want you here beside me for a long time; forever if at all possible."

Erik chuckled, and began to reach up for a kiss; behind them Doctor Lambert coughed meaningfully and the Phantom, startled, disentangled himself from her arms. Christine bit her lip, trying not to laugh. She moved to one side, folding her hands primly in front of her. "Very well, Monsieur le Docteur, you may issue your orders but I do not promise to abide by them," Erik said, his menacing tone rather at odds with the slight pink flush to his visible cheek. It was hard to be fearsome when sitting half dressed on the edge of a bed in a tiny box room.

Lambert sighed, obviously realising that this was the best he was going to get. "I can only reiterate that which I have been telling you for the past few weeks: adequate sustenance, gentle exercise and do not rush to return to normal activities. The skin and tissue is knitting well, but any over-exertion could tear the wound. I would advocate continued use of the sling, though I know you will not agree."

"I believe I can look after myself perfectly well; I have been doing so for a very long time, and survived worse injuries than this."

"I do not doubt it." The doctor took up his bag and reached for his hat; it was hanging on the bedstead, and Christine passed it to him with an apologetic smile. "I will see you again in a fortnight, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Daae."

"Thank you, Doctor," Christine said, and he nodded before taking his leave of them both. He knew the way out by now, and so she turned back to Erik. "I do wish you would not be so grumpy with him. He has been very good, and he did save your life."

He stood, carefully pulling his waistcoat back on. It obviously hurt him to twist his left shoulder for his face contorted and she heard him curse under his breath; she helped him, ignoring his attempts to bat her hands away. "I dislike his visits."

"I never would have guessed. You are always so polite to him!"

"Christine, I am serious," he said, leaving the waistcoat buttons undone and resting his hands on her shoulders. "That man has seen my home; he knows where it is and how to reach it, information that should never have gone beyond you, me and Antoinette. I appreciate that it was an emergency, but given the knowledge he has, what is stopping him from turning me in to the authorities?"

"Integrity? His Hippocratic Oath? He is a doctor, Erik, and you are his patient. He would not do anything to jeopardise your recovery; he would be a traitor to his profession," Christine replied.

His bloated lip curled in a sneer. "In my experience, professional integrity is in very short supply. Offer a man the right inducement and he will sell his soul."

"Every man?"

He shrugged. "Each has his price. It is just a matter of discovering what that price is."

"You are such a bitter man," she said, pulling away from him and moving to the window. "I wish you could learn to trust."

There was a long pause, and then she felt the brush of his fingers on her bare forearm; her skin tingled and the fine hairs there rose as though she had gooseflesh. "I do trust," Erik said quietly. "I trust _you_."

Christine turned her head to look at him, leaning back into his embrace. He was smiling slightly and his mismatched eyes were soft. "Just me?" she asked.

"You come first." Erik bent his head to touch his lips to hers. "Everyone else can wait."


	4. Girl Talk

**GIRL TALK**

"Ooh, that one, definitely! You see: the one with the three diamonds and the double gold band? That's what I would choose."

Christine tried to peer past the excited Meg to see into the jewellers' window. Tray upon tray of exquisite, very expensive rings were laid before them, in white and yellow gold, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Not far away, an aristocratic couple gave the two girls a sidelong disapproving glance before entering the shop, the bell tinkling to alert the staff to their presence. "I prefer the sapphire. It's elegant, less ostentatious."

"Says the woman who was given an engagement ring which had probably been worn by royalty," Meg said. "How many carats was that diamond?"

"I don't know; I didn't ask," Christine replied uncomfortably. "Please don't remind me of it."

Immediately contrite, Meg put an arm around her friend's shoulders, giving her a quick hug. "Sorry. I was being tactless; it won't happen again."

"It's all right. I never wore the ring, anyway. I just... I still feel guilty about what happened."

"You did it for the best, Christine. It was better to make the break before you both ended up miserable," Meg told her. "I'm sure that Raoul will come to see that in time."

Christine sighed. "I hope so. I wouldn't hurt him for the world."

They stood together, looking at the display. On the other side of the glass, one of the assistants unlocked the case and reached in to remove one of the trays containing the most brilliant and overpriced examples. Christine thought them rather gaudy, despite their apparent worth; too many gemstones were flashy rather than attractive, as Carlotta had proved more than once with her huge necklaces and earrings to rival the chandelier. Through the window she could see the woman who had just looked at them down her nose poring over the rings, her fiancé standing beside her and appearing to be rather bored.

"So," said Meg conversationally, "Has he asked you yet?"

Surprised, Christine asked, "Has who asked me what?"

"Erik, of course." The little ballerina rolled her eyes. "Has he... you know, popped the question?"

"Meg, what a way to describe it! And no, he hasn't. Neither of us intends to rush things; we're only really just getting to know one another." Linking arms with her friend, Christine led Meg away from the shop. There was no point in looking at something they would never have; only the fabulously wealthy could afford to patronise Chaumet. "Anyway, Erik has spent so much of his life without loving human contact; I don't want to confuse him or frighten him off."

They strolled down the Place Vendôme, idly glancing in the windows of the upmarket boutiques and couturiers they passed, Meg commenting on one dress or another, and going into raptures over a hat trimmed with a profusion of ostrich feathers which she insisted would look perfect on Christine. There was no price tag, as was usual with such shops, and Christine knew that such a hat would cost at least half of her annual salary. It was beautiful, though, and it was all she could do to stop Meg marching into the showroom and demanding that she try it on.

"I'm sure Erik would buy it for you, if you asked," Meg said as Christine steered her towards the Place de l'Opera, away from temptation.

"I'm not going to ask. It would look ridiculous with the dresses I have." Privately, Christine knew that Erik would buy her anything; there were still a dozen brand new gowns, all from the very best dressmakers, hanging in the wardrobe in the room he had intended for her beneath the theatre. She had looked at them properly for the first time while he was recovering, and gasped aloud when she saw the labels: at least two of them were from the House of Worth, whose creations had graced the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and the Empress Eugénie. They were beautiful, exquisite, but far too good for her; unwittingly, Erik had provided her with kind of clothes she might have worn as a Vicomtess, as Raoul's wife.

"Get a new dress, too," was Meg's simple solution to the dilemma, and Christine had to laugh.

"I'm going to have one of those hats," the ballerina remarked as they headed for one of their favourite cafes, just a stone's throw from the Opera. "When I'm Prima. Did you see Sorelli flaunting the earrings Philip de Chagny gave her before everything fell apart? They must have cost the yearly revenue of a small town."

"The diamond and emerald drops?"

Meg snorted. "'Drops' is one way to describe them. They were almost pulling her earlobes down to her shoulders. Carlotta practically turned green when she saw them."

"She always hated to be upstaged," Christine said, remembering the venom the former Prima Donna often directed at her for daring to step into the limelight.

"I expect she badgered poor Piangi for weeks to buy her some the same. He was such a sweet man sometimes," Meg mused. "I always wondered what he saw in her; she treated him like a flunky and he just accepted it."

"Love is indiscriminate, Meg. It chooses you, not the other way around."

"And there speaks Christine Daae, expert in the vagaries of Cupid's arrow," said Meg mischievously. Christine slapped her arm, but she smiled.

They reached the cafe, and were met at the door by Maurice, one of the waiters they had come to know well over the past couple of years. Christine made a mental note to bring Erik for a meal, when she had persuaded him to come out with her during the day. He was still instinctively keeping to the shadows, preferring to lurk in the Girys' home where no one could see him; she hoped that one day soon he might be able to make the transition into the light, but knew it would take time.

"Mesdemoiselles, how wonderful to see you." Maurice was saying effusively as he led them to their favourite table. "It has been so many weeks; we were becoming quite worried, especially as the Opera is still closed. Are we ever to see another performance?"

"You are more likely to hear than us," Meg replied, "When I bumped into Alphonse the other day he said that the ministers were still arguing over the choice of management, and that someone wanted to persuade Ellen Terry to come and star in Verdi's _Macbeth_. I have no idea where he finds his information; she isn't even a singer!"

"Ah, knowing Monsieur Renard, in the bar of the Cygne Blanc, through a haze of absinthe." He handed each of them a menu with a flourish. "Voila. Today, ladies, I recommend the Croque Monsieur, and to follow the éclairs with Chantilly cream are particularly divine."

"Sounds wonderful. We'll have both," said Meg before Christine could even open her mouth. She ordered coffee for two as well, and bowing gracefully Maurice withdrew. "He should have been a dancer," Meg remarked, watching him cross the room with interest.

"He was; he once told me that he was part of a travelling theatre company, but when his father died he was forced to return to Paris and find a steady job to support the family." Christine tried to fix her friend with a stern glare. "Why didn't you wait for me to decide what I wanted?"

"Because I know how much you love that cream, and it's my treat. I think we deserve a little indulgence after everything that's happened lately, don't you?"

Christine shook her head, and Meg grinned. "Don't you think your mother and Erik deserve indulging too?" the soprano asked.

"We'll take them something from the patisserie." Meg craned to see the counter by the window, which groaned under heaps of delicious-looking cakes. "Do you think Erik would appreciate a slice of gateaux?"

"I..." Christine's hand stole to her mouth as she realised she had not the slightest idea. "I don't know."

One of Meg's delicate eyebrows arched. "You don't know which foods he likes? Christine, that is a conversation you need to have, and soon."

"We haven't exactly had a conventional courtship so far."

"Maybe you should - "

Christine never got to hear Meg's suggestion, as just then a shadow fell over the table and she looked up to see a smooth-faced young man in a bowler hat with a curled brim and a suit which was just a little too garishly-checked standing there. With a smile that was just a little too wide to be genuine, he tipped the hat to them and asked,

"Mademoiselle Daae? Mademoiselle Christine Daae?"

"I'm Christine Daae," she said, seeing Meg open her mouth. A frown creased her brow as she ran her eyes over his face, searching for recognition. "Have we met, Monsieur?"

"Not personally, no, but I have been hoping to speak with you." The man withdrew a pencil and notebook from his pocket. "My name is Francois Béringer, and I am a journalist at _L'Epoque_. I was hoping that you might answer a few questions regarding the Vicomte de Chagny and the so-called Opera Ghost. No one really knows what happened before the Populaire shut down, you see, and I was hoping that you might wish to tell your side of the story before anyone else comes out of the woodwork, as it were. I'd recompense you for your time," he added when neither of the young women responded, reaching for his wallet. "Allow me to pay for your luncheon; it's the least I can do in exchange for information."

Horrified, Christine exclaimed, "I think not Monsieur! How dare you interrupt us in such a manner?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Meg snapped. "Hounding a renowned performer in public!"

The journalist's lip curled in a sneer. "Oh, she's renowned all right. Renowned as the Disappearing Soprano! Where _did_ you go the night after the _Hannibal_ gala, Mademoiselle? Was it to the Phantom's or the Vicomte's bed? It must have been one or the other!"

Immediately Meg was on her feet, squaring up to the interloper despite their difference in height, and her hand would have made contact with his cheek had not Maurice chosen that moment to return. He grasped Béringer by the collar, hauling him away from the table with surprising strength. The journalist struggled, but Maurice held him fast.

"I think that is quite enough, Monsieur," the waiter said quietly. "I trust you will leave without my having to make a scene; this is a respectable establishment and I would not like to cause these ladies any more distress than you have already inflicted."

Roughly Béringer managed to pull away and tried to straighten his crumpled suit. "It's all right, I'm leaving. But you'll be seeing me again. I'll find out the truth; you can't hold me off forever," he spat, and turned away, walking through the cafe with as much dignity as he could muster. For a long moment a hush filled the room, and then the buzz of conversation quickly returned, several pairs of eyes turned to Meg and Christine's table.

Maurice watched the journalist leave. "My apologies, ladies. If only I had realised who he was sooner! I could have saved you from such an ordeal."

"It's not your fault," Meg told him, "You weren't to know."

Outside, Béringer had paused to shake out his collar and light a cigarette. As if sensing Christine's eye on him, he turned and shot her a glare of pure hatred. She felt a chill, as though someone had walked over her grave.

"Christine? Christine, are you all right?"

Startled, she glanced up to find Meg bending over her, face creased in concern. Maurice took his cue to leave, muttering about fetching their food.

"Don't worry, Christine, he's gone," Meg said, squeezing her shoulder. She sat down again, her gaze following her friend's, but Béringer had disappeared. "What a rat! Wait until Maman hears about this; she'll seek him out and box his ears!"

"Don't tell her, Meg." Christine caught hold of the little ballerina's hand and Meg glanced back at her in surprise. "I don't want Erik to know, not just now."

"Why not? Surely you don't think..." Meg's eyes widened as she considered whatever thought had just sprung into her head. "Does he still have the Punjab lasso?"

"I don't know. Please don't say anything; he has enough to deal with at the moment and I don't want to worry him."

Meg looked sceptical, but she nodded. "If you say so."

"Besides," Christine added, forcing a smile as Maurice arrived with their luncheon, "I'm sure our knight in shining armour frightened him off. We'll probably never see him again."

As she spoke, she sincerely hoped that she was right.


	5. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

**SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS**

The first cry made Antoinette stir; the second, a full-throated scream, brought her to waking point in an instant. Reaching blindly for candle and matches on the bedside table, she nearly jumped when there was a scraping noise and then the room was lit by the soft glow of a flame, behind which Meg's face was framed in a confused frown, the shadows dancing over her features and giving them the aspect of a jack-o'-lantern. Madame Giry pulled a shawl around her shoulders and rose, stepping carefully around the pallet on the floor on which her daughter had been sleeping ever since their house guest arrived.

"What's the matter?" Meg asked around an unladylike yawn as the candle was gently prised from her grasp.

Antoinette shielded the flame with one hand and dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Typically, Meg wasn't going to be convinced by childish reassurances. "I don't think I'll be able to after that," she said, scrambling out of her blankets. "What was it: burglars? Should I find a weapon?"

"If it were burglars I'd hardly be announcing our presence with a light," her mother replied. "Put on your wrap if you must come, but do it quickly."

There was another cry as Meg did so, one that faded away into anguished whimpers which clutched at Antoinette's heart-strings. Though she had heard it before, she knew that she would never be able to get used to the sound of a grown man sobbing in pain and misery. Meg glanced at her, eyes wide, and she hurried into the tiny hallway, knocking gently on the closed door of the bedroom next to theirs. There was no answer, but she could hear the hoarse weeping from within, muffled as though he were trying to hide it from anyone who might be listening.

"Erik?" she said softly, knocking again. "Erik, it's me. May I come in?"

He did not reply, but there was a gasp and a hiccup from behind the door. Trying the handle, she found it unlocked; slowly, so as not to startle him, she entered the darkened room, Meg at her heels. Erik was an awkward bundle of limbs in the narrow bed, his shoulders shaking and each breath hitching in his chest as he struggled to control himself. As the light from Antoinette's candle approached him he turned slightly, flinging out one trembling hand as though to ward it away.

"No... Please don't..." he mumbled, voice slurred from tears and the sleep that still clung to his mind, "I'll do... I'll do whatever you want but...please, _please_ leave me alone..!"

"Maman?" Meg whispered as she beheld the crumpled form of the Phantom, tangled in the blankets, his eyes rolling back and forth beneath their closed lids. He was still talking, muttering under his breath in a language Madame Giry could not understand. The rhythm sounded vaguely Eastern. "Maman, is he all right?"

"He's dreaming," Antoinette said, passing the candle to her daughter and carefully sitting down upon the mattress. She reached for Erik's wildly-flailing hand, catching it and stroking his fingers as though she were petting a frightened bird. The action seemed to calm him a little. "I didn't realise he still had these nightmares."

"You've seen him like this before?"

"Once. It was a long time ago, when he was weak, just as he is now. Sometimes our darkest fears return to haunt us when we cannot defend ourselves."

Meg regarded the tormented man sadly. "I suppose we are all afraid of something."

"Everyone has their demons, some of us more than others. I am only aware of a fraction of Erik's history, but even that would be enough to haunt the strongest man for the rest of his life," said her mother, tucking a lock of the sleeping Phantom's tumbled dark hair behind his ear. He gave a stuttering sigh and finally lay still as she moved her hand to his brow, brushing it gently in the same way she had always done when Meg was a child, bothered by bad dreams. As she moved her thumb to his unblemished cheek, wiping away the tracks of the tears which had dried there, his eyes opened. It took a moment for comprehension to dawn, but when it did he pulled away, his features twisting in a mixture of horror and embarrassment.

"...Annie?" he asked hesitantly, and he sounded like the lost little boy she supposed he still was, somewhere deep inside. That little boy had cried for his mother in the night, but no one ever came.

She gave him an encouraging smile. "Yes, it's me. You're quite safe, there is nothing to fear."

"I'm sorry." His voice wobbled, and he took a gulping breath, swallowing unsteadily. Sitting up, he withdrew as far as possible from her, into the corner where the bed met the wall. Still wary of human contact, the only person he would really allow to touch him was Christine, but Antoinette was oddly gratified that he did not let go of her hand. "I've disturbed your sleep; forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive. We all have bad dreams once in a while."

Erik raised his head, and Madame cursed inwardly at the sharp intake of breath behind her as the candlelight illuminated his ravaged face. He had evidently not realised that Meg was there; immediately his free hand flew up to cover his distortion, his pale skin flushing in shame.

"Go and make some tea, Meg," Antoinette said.

Meg jumped, flustered and contrite. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

"Go and make some tea, please. Put plenty of sugar in."

"Sugar?" Erik asked when the door had shut behind her.

"It is good for shock," Madame told him, giving his fingers a squeeze. "And a shock is precisely what you have had."

She was glad to see that he was calming down now, the nightmare dissipating. With a deep sigh he rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes; in the dim glow from the single flame he looked old, and impossibly weary. Antoinette imagined the same careworn expression could be found upon her own face sometimes; however you lived, life inexorably wore you down.

"Meg didn't mean anything," she said after a few moments of silence. "You took her by surprise."

"I know. I'd rather she hadn't seen me like this." His voice was quiet but it was steady.

"None of us can control our dreams. She will not think any less of you for it."

"God knows what she thinks of me. I don't even know what to think of myself." Before she could make any comment on that statement, he said, "She used to keep the nightmares away, you know. Christine. Her voice could keep them at bay; just listening to her was enough. It's ridiculous; I believed that my past could no longer haunt me as long as Christine was near." He shook his head. "The foolish thoughts of a desperate man."

"No. Not foolish at all," Antoinette said, and he opened his eyes to look at her in surprise. "When you love someone enough, and are loved in return, just the memory of them can keep the demons away. In the years after I lost Jules, when I was scared and alone and had no idea how I would make it from one day to the next, I did my best to keep him alive in my heart and it helped. It was as though he was still there, beside me, comforting and protecting me."

"I had no idea you suffered so much. Why did you not tell me?"

"I barely knew you, and you are not the most... approachable of men, Erik. Besides, I had Meg to think of. For her sake I had to turn a brave face to the world. But you have not lost Christine," she added, "She is still here and she will keep the dreams from tormenting you. Try to focus on what you have now; let the past belong to the past."

He arched his one serviceable eyebrow in a sceptical fashion. "Easier said than done."

"As are many things, but we have to do our best. I know that so many have hurt you - " A harsh, humourless laugh escaped him " – but they are not the only ones in the world. Things are different now; you have people who care about you. I know you doubt it, but I assure you it is the truth."

"Oh, Annie." Erik smiled ruefully. "I truly don't deserve your friendship."

Antoinette frowned sternly and pointed the index finger of her free hand at him, jabbing him in the chest. "I will hear none of that. If you are to remain under my roof, you are to believe what I say to you, is that clear? I will not allow you to wallow in self-pity; you have had time enough for that in the past. This is a new beginning for you and you must grasp the opportunity with both hands. Do you understand?"

His eyes narrowed and he looked as though he would like to break the finger that was poking him in the ribs. "Yes, _Maman_."

She tried her best not to smile at his sarcastic tone, glad to hear it once more. "Good." The door opened and Meg cautiously peeped round it, a steaming cup in one hand. "Now: drink your tea and then we can all go back to sleep."

Erik's hand was back over his deformity as soon as the door handle turned; Antoinette released her grasp on the other and he took the proffered cup from Meg, only realising at the last minute that he couldn't hide his face and drink at the same time. The confused expression he wore was almost comical; Madame reached forwards to hold the saucer for him, but before she could touch it Meg gave a reassuring smile and said,

"It's all right, Erik; I wasn't frightened by your face, I promise you. Candlelight is a terrible liar: it twists people into something they are not."

Antoinette sighed, relieved and proud of her daughter. Flighty and silly though she might sometimes be, Meg demonstrated a keener understanding of human nature than most young women, and Madame had dealt with plenty over the years. She could not think of many others who would have accepted a damaged, unpredictable man into her home with such equanimity, or gone to the efforts Meg had to make him feel welcome.

It appeared that Erik did not know what to say. His mouth worked silently for a moment but no words emerged. In the end he settled for a nod, but he did not remove his hand from his face. Antoinette remembered a similar situation, years before, when he had refused to force her to look upon his deformity; his mask had been broken in the scuffle which wounded him and in those days he had no spares. While she cared for him and nursed him as much as he would allow, as long as she remained in his house he covered his face with anything that came to hand. Once she knew the reason for his reluctance to show himself, she could not blame him. It would take a long time for him to trust anyone enough to discard the protection of the mask.

Disappointment flitted across Meg's eyes for a moment, before she nodded too. "I'll leave you to drink," she said, adding as she reached the door, "You might want to stir it first; I put in four sugars."

Once they were alone again, Erik took a sip of the tea and grimaced at the taste. Antoinette kept her beady eye upon him until he had drained the cup to the dregs; taking it she set it down on the dresser and indicated that he was to get back into bed. Reluctantly he did so, wincing as he put weight on his healing shoulder and only just stifling the hiss of pain that broke forth as he moved. Once he was settled comfortably, she drew the blankets over him, tucking them in as tightly as she dared.

"Now, promise me that you will focus on the good things, and let the bad take care of themselves," she ordered, straightening and fixing him with her best piercing glare.

He yawned. "Your ballet mistress act doesn't have the same effect with your hair down," he remarked, and her fingers flew immediately to the plaits which almost reached her waist. There was a mischievous smile tugging at his misshapen lips and he said drowsily, "You should wear it like that more often; it makes you look ten years younger."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Antoinette told him, blushing at the unexpected compliment even so and glad that the light was too dim for him to see. "Go to sleep, Erik. I'll see you in the morning."

"Night, Annie." The door was almost shut before he spoke again, but she heard the faint words. "Sweet dreams..."


	6. The Language of Flowers

**THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS**

Erik was in a quandary.

Though reluctant to admit it to anyone but Christine, he was utterly unpractised in the art of love. While other men were indulging in their first flirtations and sowing their wild oats, he had been concerned with hiding his face and remaining alive. Until now no woman had looked twice at him unless it was to stare in horror and flee his presence. Even the tiny gypsy girl who brought him scraps not long after his imprisonment in the carnival had screamed once she saw his hideous countenance. His singing had been enough to make her risk her father's beatings for a short time, but eventually she reacted in the same way as everyone else in his life, with fear and disgust. The idea that a woman might actually want to spend time with him, to sit at his side and hold his hand, to press her lips against his twisted flesh and endure his caresses in return was one that he had never dared to entertain in more than forty years on this earth. Now that such an incredible thing had finally happened, he was forced to concede that the situation placed him at a loss.

What was a man in love supposed to do?

He sat in the chair which had so quickly become his own, glowering across the Girys' little sitting room and drumming his fingers on the faded embroidery which covered the arm. Glancing towards the window for the tenth time in as many minutes he was aggrieved to find that it was still light outside. He ground his teeth, silently berating the sun for trapping him within these four walls. Antoinette had gone to look over Madame d'Herblay's establishment with a view to obtaining some work; Erik did not agree with her lowering herself and, as he saw it, wasting her talents in the education of silly empty-headed tradesmen's daughters, but she would ever be independent, insisting that they could not take his money for longer than strictly necessary. She and Meg had always worked and they would continue to do so. He supposed he could not really blame her, for, though he cursed her stubbornness he understood her need to be beholden to no one and was just as proud himself. With a view to helping him on his way to a life in the world of men, she offered to take some of his compositions round the publishing houses but he had refused; it was too soon for such a thing and Erik was nothing if not protective of his work. The thought that his precious music would be pored over by the ignorant, their desire only to make a profit from the result of his labour, was one that made his stomach churn. Christine had joined her voice to Madame's, telling him that his music was so beautiful it should be heard by everyone, not left to moulder in a drawer, but even she could not sway him. One day, perhaps, but not now. The farce that had been _Don Juan Triumphant _was still too vivid in his memory.

Christine. _Christine_...

With a grunt of annoyance, Erik swiftly rose and began to pace. The hearthrug was barely three feet across and his strength was still not what it was, but the action made him feel as though he had some purpose. He had watched the gallants arriving at the Opera, seen them waiting outside the stage door for the objects of their affections, bearing gifts and flattery; he had seen them and been disdainful, scornful of their desires, their transparent intentions. They had all been so relaxed, the smooth patter coming so easily; the girls melted before them, attentions bought with a few pretty words and a bouquet of flowers from the seller in the Place de l'Opera. If someone had asked him, he would have dismissed in an instant the suggestion that one day he might be jealous of those young bucks, desperate to know how they came by their confidence. None of those rich, attractive boys would be tying himself up in knots at the mere idea of buying a gift for his sweetheart.

It wasn't as if he had never bought Christine a present before. For months, years even, his thoughts were constantly of her as he furnished the blue room in his subterranean home; the room he had decided would be hers and hers alone. He spent so long perfecting the decor, choosing the furniture and ordering the most exquisite gowns from the best fashion houses in Paris to fill the delicately carved wardrobe. Everything was carefully sourced, from the bed linen to the tiny pink silk slippers that stood side by side on the Chinese rug. It was one thing, however, to make purchases with Christine in mind; quite another to present her with a gift, to watch her reaction and be on agonised tenterhooks, terrified that she might not like his efforts. Erik knew that if he saw the slightest flicker of disappointment in her eyes he would be completely undone.

Meg had put the idea in his head. It would never have occurred to him had she not mentioned meeting Giselle, the silly, flighty ballet rat he had always dismissed as not worthy of his attention, with her beau in the street. The gentleman had bought his dancer a silver locket for no other reason than that they had known each other for six months. Erik thought it ridiculous, but Meg was impressed and Christine seemed to be too when the incident was mentioned in her presence.

He paced again. Outside the light was finally beginning to fade and he wondered if he dared to cross the threshold. All three women tried their best to persuade him to leave the apartment during the hours of daylight but so far he had resisted; laughing, jeering faces filled his mind's eye whenever he considered it and he heard again the taunts and cackles of the fairground audience. If he walked in the light he would be seen and the torment would begin again. He had been the Phantom for too long, shut away in the enclosed world of the Opera; he was not sure if he even understood anything beyond those walls any more.

But then there was Christine. She belonged in the glow of the sun, needed its nurturing rays like the most delicate bloom. How could he remain in darkness if he wished to stand at her side?

The thought of flowers reminded him of the Place de l'Opera. Snatching up his cloak and hat, he hurriedly left his temporary home and descended towards the twilight streets.

* * *

The flower seller was not there.

Erik cursed himself for not realising that she would have moved elsewhere when her regular income from the Populaire dried up. He prowled around the environs of the Opera for a while, desperately restraining his urge to head for the Rue Scribe gate and his home; who would have guessed that after ten years of being buried underground, railing against his fate, he would actually have come to miss it? There were a few other people abroad, scurrying across the open space before the theatre, faces muffled and hats pulled low against the brisk wind; March was beginning its reign as a lion, and even Erik, used to low temperatures, found himself shivering as the chill cut straight through his heavy cloak.

A couple, arm in arm, passed close to him, forcing him to swiftly back into the shadows lest he be seen. The woman peered after him, no doubt catching a glimpse of the whirl of black fabric which accompanied his movement; he stood as still as the statues on the Opera facade, and she looked away, her forehead creased slightly in a frown. She murmured something Erik did not hear, her words carried away by the wind, and they moved on, her companion clamping a hand to his hat to keep it from being blown away. Emerging slightly, Erik watched them go, for he had not missed the magnificent bouquet of flowers that the woman held in her arms. He realised that they had come from the Boulevard des Capucines and, clutching his own hat tightly, hurried off in that direction.

The shops were beginning to close, the evening drawing in. He quickly scanned the windows, dismissing the chocolate and coffee and expensive clothes which vied for his attention, intent upon one thing and one thing only. A few interested looks were thrown his way from the straggling customers and the assistants who were taking in merchandise and dousing lamps, no doubt drawn by the unusual sight of a man dressed for a performance when there were none to attend. Trying his best to ignore them, Erik spotted the florist that he had always spared no more than a passing glance on his nocturnal walks; there were lights still on inside and he crossed the street towards it.

He gritted his teeth as the bell jangled merrily, announcing his presence. Surrounding him, their numbers somewhat depleted at this late hour, were all manner of flowers, their mingled scents making his poor excuse for a nose twitch. One or two he recognised, lilies and carnations and tall, graceful orchids, but the bewildering array reminded him that he was no botanist. His life had allowed him little opportunity to become interested in such things, especially once he took up residence below ground; plants did not thrive in candlelight.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting, Monsieur," a cheerful voice said, almost making him jump. He turned to see a kindly-looking woman standing behind the counter. "I was just about to close, but if there is something I can help you with..?"

She regarded him steadily, waiting for him to answer, and Erik found that he quite unaccountably had no idea what to say. His mind whirled desperately, and the florist must have taken his hesitation for nerves as she smiled and nodded. That action alone confused him even more, for the experience of having a complete stranger smile at him was an entirely new one. Lifting the counter, she stepped out into the shop and approached him, her hands folded in front of her. She was middle-aged, he supposed, slightly plump but smartly, if simply, dressed, her auburn hair wound into a neat bun on the back of her head.

"Well," she remarked, the smile still touching her lips, "I assume that you did not come here for a loaf of bread. You will be wanting a bouquet, I imagine?"

Erik managed to incline his head in the affirmative.

"And who will be the fortunate lady? Your wife? Sister? Your mother, perhaps - "

"No. Definitely not," he managed to say quickly, interrupting her, and she blinked in surprise. Clearing his throat, he added, "It is for a young lady of my acquaintance, of whom I am very... fond."

"Ah." The smile was back, much to his relief. "Well, then, does your young lady favour any particular flower? I have some beautiful chrysanthemums, which I could put together with freesias and perhaps daisies or asters? I have lilies, and irises, and I think a few early daffodils left..." She trailed off, once again leaving an expectant silence for him to fill.

Erik caught himself staring at her blankly, and he flushed, embarrassed. "I am sorry, Madame. All this is... new to me. To tell you the truth, I am not entirely sure what she would like."

For a long moment she just looked at him, and he swore he could see something akin to pity in her eyes. He tensed, feeling a familiar anger start to build within him, and had to force himself to remain in the shop when all of his instincts were telling him to leave, to tear himself away from her prying gaze. Tilting his head so that the shadow thrown by the brim of his hat concealed his mask, he moved away from her, towards one flower he would know anywhere: near the window was a display of roses, their petals as soft and enticing as silk. There were many shades, from white to pink to yellow, but he found himself drawn to those that were a deep, blood red.

"What about these?" he asked brusquely, reaching out to touch one of the blooms with the tip of his finger.

The florist followed him, and he had to fight the urge to step away once more when she came a little too close. "An excellent choice, Monsieur, but are you sure you wish to present this lady with such a bold statement of intent?"

Whirling around, Erik fixed her with a sharp gaze. "Whatever do you mean?"

She startled at his abrupt movement, but covered it well. "I assume that you are not aware of the emotions which can be conveyed by certain flowers, Monsieur?" He shook his head, and she smiled slightly once more. "The red rose is a potent symbol of passion, of true love. It might be construed as a little forward to give such a flower to a lady with whom you have a rather less... intense connection?"

The red roses were enticing, their fragrance delicate. He stroked one of the petals again, gratified to find that it did not shrivel and die upon contact with his skin. "What would you suggest?"

"The freesias and daisies represent innocence and regard. Put with white carnations and a few asters..." She had been bustling around the shop as she spoke, but now she stopped, her hands full of flowers, and looked at him, her head on one side. "It doesn't matter. Something tells me that you will not be swayed from the roses."

Erik glanced down at her, raising an eyebrow. "Am I so transparent, Madame?"

"Describe your young lady to me." He opened his mouth to object, but she added before he could speak, "Humour me, Monsieur. What is she like? Is she beautiful?"

He sighed. "She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen; an angel with the voice of a nightingale. She is kind, and compassionate, and I still cannot believe that she has chosen me. I - " Belatedly recalling that he was talking to a stranger, he broke off, turning away and wrapping himself tightly in his cloak. "If you would make up the flowers, Madame, I would be grateful," he said, keeping his face averted. "Just tell me how much I owe you."

Confused, the florist stepped past him and began to withdraw the roses from the water in which they stood. Carrying the blooms across to the counter with a few others she collected on the way, she began to deftly arrange them, snipping the stems to make them even and carefully wrapping the whole in green paper. Erik found himself watching in spite of his discomfort, mesmerised by her competent hands as she tied a length of red ribbon around the bouquet, finishing her work with a neat and pretty bow.

"A dozen red roses with carnations and baby's breath," she said. "That will be twenty-five francs, Monsieur."

Fingers shaking now he fumbled with his wallet, handed over the money in silence and all but snatched up the flowers in his haste to leave the shop. He should not be here; it was ridiculous to have come. As he reached the door she spoke, forcing him to halt, his back to her.

"Forgive me for asking, Monsieur, but were you injured in the Siege?"

Erik felt his spine stiffen. "What makes you think so?" he enquired coldly.

"Your... your face, Monsieur. It reminded me... reminded me of my brother. He was struck with a bayonet during the fighting; lost his left eye and suffered a terrible scar." The woman's voice was sad, and he turned towards her, ever so slightly. "It took a long time, but he recovered, though he was never the same again. He could never show his face for fear of frightening children. People can be so cruel."

The anger which had been rising once more began to dissipate as her words sank in. Erik had never truly considered that there might be others who shared and understood his pain. "What became of your brother?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"He went into the country. Works with the hothouses, growing these flowers; he loves being amongst such beauty, in some way it makes up for the loss of his own. I am glad that finally he has found a kind of peace." She paused. "Have you found peace, Monsieur?"

Gazing down at the roses he held, Erik could not help but think of Christine, recalling her smile, the way her eyes lit up at the sight of him, the sensation of her hand in his, of her lips upon his disfigured cheek. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "Perhaps I have. Merci, Madame, I am grateful to you."

She nodded, her mouth slightly open as though to say something more, but before she could he was gone, the bell jangling behind him, enfolded in the embrace of the encroaching darkness.


	7. A Gift Horse

**Author's Note:  
**

Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I'm glad you're enjoying it. :)

* * *

**A GIFT HORSE**

Meg met Christine at the door, pulling her quickly inside and saying in a hurried whisper, "Erik has something to tell you. He shut Maman and I in the kitchen and has been pacing up and down the living room for half an hour, muttering to himself. I think he might be preparing to... well, you know!"

"Surely not," Christine murmured, hanging up her cloak. She couldn't believe that Erik would be ready to propose so soon, but then she remembered the wax doll in his home, the one frighteningly like her that wore a sumptuous wedding gown and veil. Would he really decide to jump in now when she had ended her engagement to Raoul barely two months before?

Excited, Meg placed a hand in the small of her back and gave her a little push towards the sitting room door. "Go on," she hissed, a huge smile on her face, "he's waiting for you. And remember that I want to hear every little detail!"

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of depriving you!" Christine waited, and after a moment Meg scurried off down the hall, vanishing into the kitchen with a flick of her golden curls. Shaking her head and smiling, Christine hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the door in front of her. She heard footsteps, and then Erik clearing his throat before bidding her to enter.

He was standing in the middle of the room, on the slightly threadbare rug, hands folded behind his back, a striking figure in black which took up most of the space. Christine thought absently that they would have to get him some new clothes; wearing a dress suit and white tie away from the Opera looked rather incongruous, even if the exquisite cut did flatter him. As she entered he looked nervous; she could see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard and wondered whether Meg could actually be right for once.

"Christine," he said, and his usually smooth voice emerged with its tone rather strangled. He coughed and tried again. "You are looking particularly beautiful this afternoon, my dear."

"Thank you, Erik; it's very kind of you to say so." She moved to take a seat on the sofa, but he hurried forwards, resting a hand on her arm to stay her.

"No, please, not just yet. I have something else I would like to say."

"Very well," Christine agreed, and stood before him, smiling encouragingly.

The smile only served to fluster him. He took two steps away, turning and walking to the window, running a hand over his hair, smoothing the already neat strands. His fingers were trembling ever so slightly, she realised. After staring down at the street below with a gaze which could have caused the next person to cross beneath it to burst into flames, he whirled back around to face her.

"Christine, I - " he began, but his voice faltered once more and his features creased in frustration. "I would like to – I would like - damn and blast it, I have been practising for the last half an hour and I still have no idea how to say this to you!"

She tried not to laugh; his temper flaring was so much more typical of him than the tongue-tied gallant he was trying to be. "Just say what you feel," she told him.

He glanced at her suspiciously, and she hid her traitorous lips behind her hand; the last thing she wanted was for him to suspect her of mocking him. "Christine, you must forgive me; I do not wish to seem less of a man in your eyes, but I have never done this before," he confessed.

"Why should I think that of you? Everyone must start somewhere," Christine said. "I am not all that experienced, either."

"Yes, but you must have had suitors before you like this dozens of times, enough to know how to receive them."

That was a strange remark to make. Christine frowned. How many proposals of marriage did he imagine she might have had in her short life? "I have experienced fewer than you might think," she said carefully.

"Still more than I, I fear." Erik took another turn about the room, wringing his hands as he dithered. She had never seen him so unsure of himself before, and it unnerved her. Just as she was thinking that it might be easier for both of them if she proposed, he stopped walking and stood, eyeing his reflection uncertainly in the glass doors of Madame Giry's china cabinet. He took a deep breath and said quickly, almost as though he feared if he paused he might not get all the words out, "Christine, I... I would be honoured and gratified if you would accept this token of my affection."

She steeled herself as he turned once more, barely daring to breathe, and it took her a moment to process the fact that in his hand was not a ring box but a huge bouquet of brilliantly red roses which he had apparently produced out of thin air. Such a fuss over a bunch of flowers! Christine wasn't sure whether she felt disappointed or relieved. As she hesitated, Erik's sweetly hopeful expression began to fall, his visible features crumpling, and she jumped forwards quickly before the perceived rejection could crush him.

"Oh, Erik, they're the most beautiful roses I've ever seen," she said, taking the proffered flowers from his wilting grip. There were a dozen, large, full blooms, interspersed with delicate white gypsophila, and their scent was quite intoxicating. She had occasionally been sent bouquets like this by admirers at the Opera, and she had an idea from which florist they came and how expensive they were. "Did you buy these yourself?"

He nodded. "Yesterday evening. Antoinette has looked after them for me since then. Do you... do you like them?"

"I love them. Thank you." Christine stood on tiptoes to kiss him. "Thank you _so_ much! It means even more to me that you went out to get them; I know it can't have been easy for you."

"In the end it was easier than I imagined," he replied, a frown touching his forehead. "I was afraid they might not be to your taste; for a brief moment you looked as though you were expecting something else."

"Oh, no, no, no! Not at all. You just took me by surprise," she assured him, and he looked relieved. Before he could respond there was a muffled sneeze from the other side of the door and then the pattering of footsteps in the hallway. Erik arched an eyebrow in query. "Meg," Christine clarified, and he nodded again.

"It seems that the days of our having time alone together are gone," he remarked with a trace of annoyance. "She should know better than to listen at doors."

"She's curious. And a hopeless romantic."

Erik sighed. "I suppose there are worse things to be."

Christine looked at the flowers in her hands and rearranged a couple of the blooms. "I should ask Madame for some water to put these in."

She found the Girys in their cosy kitchen, Meg buzzing around with ill-concealed anticipation while her mother quite calmly made tea. There was a vase sitting on the sideboard, obviously waiting for the roses, and so Christine arranged them in it, wondering whether she had anything large enough to hold them in her own apartment. From the corner of her eye she could see Meg hovering, chewing on her nails, until the tiny ballerina finally abandoned all control and exclaimed,

"I thought he would ask this time, I really did!"

"It doesn't matter, Meg," Christine told her, amused by her friend's antics. "I can wait."

"You mustn't expect too much of him," said Madame Giry, sliding the tea cosy over the pot and adding it to the tray of cups and saucers on the table. "It took him nearly twenty four hours to pluck up the courage to give Christine the flowers. He was shaking more than an ingénue stepping on stage for the first time."

"I honestly thought he'd slipped out to buy a ring last night," Meg said, earning herself a roll of the eyes from her mother. "It was so strange to come home and find him gone!"

Christine listened to them disagree, admiring her roses and considering whether Madame would allow her to borrow the vase. She would have to leave the flowers with the ballet mistress while she made her trip to the cemetery in any case; they would be awkward to carry and she did not want them to wilt. Her father would have loved them too, she reflected, and made a mental note to stop and buy more to lay upon his grave.

She sighed as she thought of her darling papa. It was six years today since she lost him, and the pain had not lessened in that time; they had been together for so long, just the two of them against the world, that even now she could sometimes feel a cold draught at her side where he used to stand when they performed. A thought would often occur to her, something that would amuse him, and she would turn to tell him, only to find that she was alone. In the little apartment they had shared she could still smell his tobacco if she sat in his chair. She still missed him terribly, and would give anything to have him with her once more.

Above all, she wished that she could introduce him to Erik. Gustave Daae held no prejudices, never judged by appearance, and though he would definitely not approve of the manner in which the Phantom had at first gone about becoming acquainted with his daughter, Christine knew that he would have nothing but sympathy and understanding for Erik's plight. Her father was no paragon, but he had dragged himself up from poverty and obscurity to play in some of the most glittering venues in Europe, his talent mesmerising the great and the good from Paris to Budapest. His career had been short, and it brought them no lasting wealth, but Christine remembered the beatific expression on his face when he played and knew that as long as the music was within him he was happy. Erik would recognise that feeling better than anyone.

Christine twirled one of the roses between her fingers thoughtfully as Meg opened the kitchen door and her mother carried the tea tray through into the sitting room. Through the doorway she could see Erik seated beside the fireplace, legs elegantly crossed and his head bent over a copy of _Le Figaro_. He glanced up as Madame Giry approached and leapt to his feet to relieve her of her burden; as he caught sight of Christine standing at the kitchen table, a red rose in her hand, he smiled and she knew that, however silly it would seem, she wanted her father to meet him.


	8. Rosemary For Remembrance

**Author's Note  
**

****LadyLuly: I envisage Christine to be around twenty, closer to the age she is in the book.

* * *

**ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE**

"Thank you again for the roses, Erik; they're beautiful." Christine brought the bloom she held to her nose and inhaled the fragrance once again. "And thank you for agreeing to come with me."

Erik's smile was slightly uncomfortable, but he patted the hand that rested on his sleeve as she linked her arm through his. "After what happened on the previous occasion, I would have thought me the last person you would want to accompany you to your father's grave."

"I do not anticipate there being any problems this time. Raoul is at officer training college, and as long as you promise me that your Punjab lasso will not make an appearance we should do very well," she told him lightly, glancing up to gauge his reaction. It was difficult, as his hat was tilted as far as possible over his face and he had wound a scarf around his neck to try and obscure the mask further, pulling the fabric right up to his chin. Christine wished that he didn't feel the need to hide, but it was an achievement to have drawn him outside during the day, even if it was nearly dusk and the light was steadily fading. "I was angry at the time, but I have forgiven you. Jealousy makes people do stupid things." She tried to catch a glimpse of his eyes in the shadows beneath the brim of his fedora. "It is much like love in that respect."

"Love, it would seem, makes fools of us all," he remarked, his tone even.

Christine leant her head on his shoulder as they walked, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. "If that is the case, I am quite happy to be foolish."

Erik chuckled. "As am I, my dear. I had thought, though, that you might wish to have these moments to yourself; I am aware of the significance of the date."

"You remembered?" She stopped and looked up at him, surprised that he should recall something she had told him some years ago, back in the days when she thought he was no more than a disembodied voice sent from above.

"I remember everything you ever told me," he assured her. "Every year on the twelfth of March I made sure that I was able to watch over you, in case you needed comfort."

"Of course..." Memories rose to Christine's mind's eye. On the anniversary of her father's death, while she was still nursing her grief and mourning his loss, her Angel had always been close at hand, ready to listen or wash away her pain with his song. "The first year... you were there when I returned from the cemetery and you sang me to sleep; you cared even though you hardly knew me. Why were you so kind to a near stranger?"

"Because..." Erik took hold of both her hands, holding them tightly as he tried to find the right words. "Because you were lonely, and I know more than anyone how it feels to be lonely. You needed a friend."

She stared at him for a long moment before pulling free of his grasp and impulsively throwing her arms around him. Startled by the hug, he tensed for a moment before allowing himself to embrace her back, resting his unmasked cheek against the top of her head. "Thank you," she whispered, and felt him nod in reply.

Gathering up the flowers she had dropped, they continued in a companionable silence, Christine leading them through the tall, looming headstones past weeping angels and crooked marble crosses. Her steps were practised, confident; had she been required to she knew that she could have found the way blindfold, so many times had she walked this path over the last six years. Here and there snowdrops peeped through the long grass and a few early crocuses, their purple and yellow brilliant against the remains of the winter foliage, poked their heads above ground. She was so relieved that spring was finally on its way; the winter seemed to have been longer and darker than any she could recall, shadowed by events that she would be glad to put behind her.

At last they reached the plain marble stone which marked the final resting place of Gustave Daae. Reverently, Christine crouched before the grave, tucking the two long-stemmed red roses she had brought from the bouquet with which Erik had surprised her into the little vase she had put there for such a purpose. Erik himself remained at a respectful distance, hat in hand after some hesitation over whether he should remove it, his black suit and cloak giving him the appearance of a perpetual mourner.

"Bon Soir, Papa," she said quietly, brushing a few dead leaves from the ground before the headstone. "I've brought someone to see you."

Erik's eyes widened as she turned and held out a hand to him, encouraging him to step closer. "No, Christine, I'm sure he wouldn't want me to - "

"My father judged no one, Erik. He always saw the good in people, often to his own misfortune it is true, but he would not consider your past, or your face; he would see only the man who loves his daughter. Nothing else would matter." Christine extended her hand again. "Please. I want him to meet you. I want him to know that I am safe and protected."

Somewhat reluctantly, he moved to her side, folding his body in an elegant bow towards the grave. "Your servant, Monsieur." If he found the idea of speaking to a dead man silly or distasteful, he kept his thoughts to himself and she was grateful.

"You would have much in common, I think," she remarked, and from the corner of her eye she saw Erik's eyebrow arch quizzically. "He lived for music just as you do, could feel it in his blood, hear it in his soul. When he became ill and could no longer play it crushed him. The loss of his music only hastened the end, I think."

"I did hear him, you know, at the Opera," he said after a pause. "I did not attend every concert that was given but I made a point of listening to this violinist of whom I had heard so much. Your father was a virtuoso; his skill did more than merely tug at my emotions, it reached into my chest and tore out my shrivelled excuse for a heart. It is no wonder his daughter has a voice to make the angels weep; they were already sobbing when he began to play." He glanced at the almost-bare marble in front of them, at the small chiselled lettering which recorded the length of Gustave Daae's stay upon the earth. Christine's father had lived for just a little less than forty years. "He deserved more than this. You both did. He should have a grand mausoleum, a monument to his genius. With such a talent he should have been feted throughout Europe; you could have lived like a queen."

"While Papa was with me I was happy, and that was enough. We are both simple people; we needed no bright lights or sycophantic friends." Christine straightened, stepping back to stand beside the Phantom. "He was hopeless with money, but I wanted for nothing. Though we had little material wealth, he loved me and I loved him and that is what matters. If he had been as rich as Croesus he still would have got up early to lay the fire and polish my shoes."

Erik was quiet for some time as they stood there, the darkness falling silently around them. It was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking for his face was as expressionless as his mask and his eyes were too deep in shadow to read, but Christine had an idea: speaking of the love in her life could only throw the lack of such affection in his own into sharp relief. She gently squeezed his hand, and he glanced down at her.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," she told him, and he shook his head, his gaze wandering off into the distance.

"You've nothing to apologise for. Your father gave you the unconditional love of a parent, something every child should be able to take for granted. Feeling safe and secure growing up should be a right, not a privilege."

"It was a right that was denied to you, and for that I am truly sorry." Christine tugged slightly on his hand and led him to a bench a little further down the path. As they sat, she asked hesitantly, "Did you really never wonder what became of your parents?"

A muscle twitched in the side of Erik's jaw, but he did not deny her a response. "My father passed away many years ago; I do not know exactly when, but it was after I had left home."

"When was that?" She could not help her curiosity, and the question was out of her mouth almost before she realised.

"I'm not entirely sure... I may have been nine or ten at the time. You must forgive me, my dear," he added, turning a rueful smile to her, "Birthdays were not celebrated during my childhood and I am not completely certain how old I am now. I _think_ I am forty-three, but... Once I ran away it became even harder to keep track."

Christine's fingers stole to her mouth to stifle the shocked gasp which escaped her. "Oh, Erik. Do you not even know on which day you were born?"

He shrugged. "I believe it to be sometime in February, for my mother used to shut herself up with her bible and rosary and pray loudly for our deliverance during that month, much to my father's despair." Seeing the tears that started in her eyes, he said quickly, "It does not bother me, Christine; it is only a date."

"Your..." She tried to wipe at the tears with her sleeve, and he passed her a fine linen handkerchief which she accepted gratefully. "Your father – what kind of man was he?"

"Tall, handsome, well-read. I suppose I inherited some of his attributes, though they were not those he would have wished. Unfortunately he was also weak and easily dominated; he denied my mother nothing and was consequently completely under her thumb. In the end he turned to drink and that was when I decided the time had come for me to leave." With a deep sigh, Erik leaned back on the bench and stared down at his feet. "They thought I couldn't get out of the house, but I learned how to pick the locks at quite a young age and was across the garden and over the wall before they could catch me. I never looked back."

"And yet you know that your father is dead?"

"I travelled far and wide over the years, both willingly and unwillingly," he admitted. "On occasion the fairs and carnivals would make stops close to my childhood home and I would hear rumours and gossip; there had always been plenty of that about my family. One of the gypsies with whom it was my misfortune to be riding before I came to Paris took great delight in telling me, once he had managed to put two and two together and not make five, that my mother had gone mad and my father drank himself to death. The story of the cursed couple and their demon child had become common currency by then."

Christine did not know what to say and so she said nothing, merely tightening her hand around his in unspoken sympathy.

"My father could have been a good man, but he lacked the strength of character. He tried to tutor me, school being out of the question under the circumstances, but when my intellect began to outstrip his own he became frightened and it was easier to try to beat the presumption out of me than to continue with our lessons. In an attempt to feed my growing hunger for knowledge I took to stealing books from his library, which only brought further punishments upon my head." The fingers of Erik's right hand clenched into a fist and he took a deep breath to try and calm his now wavering voice. He shook his head, sharply, as though the action might banish the unpleasant memories. "Forgive me; I should not be telling you all of this."

"You can tell me anything, you know that," Christine told him, reaching up to stroke the visible side of his face. Gently she touched his chin, turning his head so that she could look at him. The look in his eyes almost made her heart stop: they were desolate, unbearably sad. "Whatever happened in the past, I am here and you are here and we are together. These people cannot hurt you now."

There was a pause, and then she was in his arms, being held so fiercely that the breath almost entirely left her body. She felt the cool surface of his mask against the curve of her neck as he crushed her to him, felt the air hitching in his chest as it rose and fell rapidly against her own. If she shifted her gaze slightly she could just make out the little gravestone and the red roses, their petals dark and dusky against the white of the marble. Music, the crying of a violin, faint at first but growing steadily stronger, touched her ears and she listened, recognising the masterful handling of the instrument. She could almost see him standing there, his fingers nimbly flying over the strings as the bow moved gracefully back and forth, his dark hair a halo of unruly curls and a beatific smile on his face as he played. A single tear fell onto the crown of her head and she wondered whether Erik could hear it too.

_Thank you, Papa_, she whispered silently, _thank you for bringing him to me_.


	9. Prying Pandora

**PRYING PANDORA**

As they walked towards the cemetery gates, Christine offered her hand to Erik.

He looked at it, hesitant, and then took it almost shyly; she found herself smiling at his reluctance when he had been embracing her so fiercely only a few minutes before. Hand in hand they strolled back through the tall, silent ranks of tombstones, the carved angels guarding the graves taking on an entirely different aspect in the gloom; she almost thought that at any moment she would catch a glimpse of them moving from the corner of her eye. Hulking mausoleums, the names of generations of the same family etched into their stone, stood like sentinels along the main avenue; old and crumbled crosses, crucifixes with the body of the Saviour broken and battered by the years, only served to remind visitors more forcefully that eventually every living thing came to death and decay. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her and taking a firmer grip upon Erik's fingers.

"Are you all right?" he asked, glancing down at her, and she nodded, grateful for his presence. It was strange how she now looked to him for reassurance after the terror she had felt when he appeared in this very spot not so long ago. Things had changed so much! She had found the man behind the monster indeed.

Gradually, Christine became aware that the chapel bell was steadily tolling, its mournful sound muffled by the night. A few dark shapes in the distance, the glow of lanterns bobbing in their midst, resolved themselves as they neared into a funeral cortege; she could just make out the glass-sided hearse waiting a few yards behind, the horses tossing their heads, as the pallbearers carried the coffin, their steps slow and respectful, their bare heads bowed. Gently Erik drew her to one side as they passed, removing his hat once more; Christine crossed herself instinctively, whispering a prayer for the departed and remembering her first sight of her father's casket as it waited in the tiny parlour of their apartment, a single spray of flowers adorning the lid. It had seemed such a small wooden box, barely long enough to fit his tall, gangling frame. She watched as the mourners followed the coffin: a couple, the woman, her face obscured by a thick net veil, weeping into a handkerchief, the man's face a stoic mask of grief, walked directly behind, and at their heels was a much older lady holding the hand of a girl who could be no more than six or seven. The child gazed directly ahead, her little face pale; she looked so small in her black dress and boots, her blonde plaits luminous in the lamplight. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she made no attempt to brush them away; Christine felt a sob well in her own throat and she must have made a sound for the girl's head turned to look at her. Wide-eyed, she stared at the odd couple standing on the sidelines, her mouth opening in wonder as her gaze took in Erik, who Christine realised must look like something from another world in his heavy, glittering cloak, his mask gleaming like a half-moon for a second before he quickly turned his face away. A moment later the woman walking with her tugged on her hand to regain her attention and the procession made its slow way past them, gradually disappearing into the darkness.

"She's so young," Christine said sadly when the cortege had gone. "How will she bear her loss?"

"She is fortunate: she has family. I just hope that they will be able to comfort and sustain her." Erik replaced his hat with a smooth, practised movement, tugging down the brim. "I think it is time we went home; the night air is not good for your voice."

"It hardly matters; I have no reason to sing at present."

He turned incredulous eyes upon her. "The inability to play is no excuse for ruining your instrument! It is high time we resumed your lessons; I have not invested so much time in your tuition only to see you fall out of practise within a few months."

Privately, though she longed to sing again, Christine doubted that there would be much point in Erik guiding her to even greater heights if she was doomed to spend her days listening to young ladies plunk out simple tunes on the piano. He would not like it, but a little investigation on her part had revealed that a career as a music teacher was probably the only one left open to her if she wished to remain respectable. She could not accept his assistance for much longer lest she be thought of as a kept woman; her landlady had already commented on her continued source of income since the closure of the Opera and Christine could tell exactly what she was thinking.

"I was the only one," she remarked as he handed her into the four-wheeler which had waited patiently outside the gates for them. "At Papa's funeral, I mean. I was the only mourner. He had so many supposed friends, yet none of them came to see him laid to rest, or even sent flowers. They were happy enough to take his money, but not one came to say goodbye."

"The world is full of such parasites," Erik replied curtly as he shut the door and rapped on the roof to tell the driver to move off. "Fair-weather friends are never to be found when actually needed."

"I would hate to think that my friends cared so little about me that they would allow me to make my final journey alone."

It was dark in the cab, but she thought she saw the visible side of his mouth curl upwards. "That would never happen, Christine."

She returned his smile, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the music of the carriage wheels on the road as they were driven by the steady clip-clopping of the horses' hooves. Christine sleepily rested her head against the squabs, her eyes following the lights from the streets outside as they played across Erik's face, a sudden burst of illumination sending his profile into silhouette upon the window.

"I sometimes wonder what my life might have been like had my mother lived," she mused. "Papa never really recovered from her death; every night up until the cancer took him he would talk to her, tell her how much he missed her. I doubt she would have allowed me to follow him across Europe as I did, waiting for him backstage while he performed, singing with him in the days when we travelled from fair to fair; I might never have come to Paris at all."

"Did your mother believe in your father's gift?" Erik asked, his mismatched gaze flicking across to her.

"He said that she did, but before I was born he was still playing at small venues in Stockholm, returning to the country in the summer to tour the towns and villages. My mother was never strong, you see; there was another child, a little boy, but he died after just two weeks and Mama was so ill that the doctors told Papa they should not try again if she wanted to live." Christine twisted her hands together in her lap, remembering the tiny gravestone in Uppsala beside her mother's and thinking of Stefan, the older brother she had never known. "They wanted a child so desperately..."

"And they gained one, one of whom I am sure they would both be proud," he told her firmly, moving across the carriage to sit beside her.

"But at what cost? I lived and she died – how is that fair? Papa named me after her, you know. She was called Christina. Forgive me for asking, but..." She took a deep breath. "What was your mother's name?"

There was a long pause, and then he said, "Angelique. Ironic, isn't it, that an angel could give birth to a demon?"

"You're not a demon, Erik," Christine replied, "And she was no angel, not if she could be so cruel to her own son. You should know better than anyone that appearances can be deceptive."

He inclined his head. "Touché, my dear. You are quite right."

"Would you really not like to know what became of her?" As she spoke she felt him tense, the muscles in his arm contracting as it rested next to hers, his fingers curling instinctively into a fist. "She could be alive or dead; would it not make you easier in your mind to know which?"

"She is dead to me. That is all that matters," he said, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice. "She has been dead to me since the moment I left her and that life behind."

Christine knew that she was treading on thin ice, but she could not curb her curiosity. She loved this man, but there was still so much she did not know about him; he was considerably older than her, but he had given her just the merest hints of the years before he took up residence beneath the Opera House. She tried to imagine him as a child but could not. What had he been like as a young man, before he became the Phantom? Though there was the possibility she would discover things in his past that would be difficult to accept, she could not stop herself from asking the questions. "You say that my parents would be proud of me, but can you not think the same of yours; that they might be proud to see the fine man that you have become?"

Erik gave a humourless laugh, the sound harsh and uncomfortable. "Oh, yes, I am sure they would be overcome with pride to see me skulking in the cellars, locked in perpetual darkness. No doubt my dear mother would say it was all that I deserved; age has not improved my face and nor will the passing of further years."

"You can't know that - "

"_Christine_."

She stopped talking, obedient as ever to the tones of his voice, and this one could freeze the very air around them. The light shifted as the cab pulled up beneath the lamppost outside her apartment building and she nearly gulped at the anger she could see in the taught lines of his face, the sculpted scowl of the mask in harmony with his features. She had gone too far, but there was no way back now.

"Leave it, Christine, please. You do not know where your curiosity will lead you," he told her, and she thought he looked so very tired for a moment, though it could just have been a trick of the light. "That chapter of my life has been closed for a long time now; I locked and bolted the door and no good can come from opening it once more. Do you understand?"

Silently she nodded, and he leapt gracefully from the cab, turning back to her with hand outstretched. Instinctively she moved towards him and he helped her step lightly onto the pavement with such practised courtesy that she could believe he had been handing young ladies in and out of carriages all his life. It only made her wonder all the more what had happened to him before they met; how could someone who claimed to have been feared and reviled by the world possibly have become such a gentleman?

"Would you like me to see you to your door?" he asked quietly, eyes searching her face.

Christine shook her head. "Someone might see you, and my landlady is asking enough questions as it is. I think I might have an early night. Will I see you tomorrow?" Her query was anxious, betraying the fear of his temper that still lurked within her.

"Of course, if you wish it," he replied, sounding surprised that she should have to ask.

"Yes, I do. I always do. Erik, I'm sorry, I didn't - " she began but he pressed a long finger to her lips.

"We won't speak of it again," he said, and she could only nod again in response.

To her slight disappointment, aware that their driver was watching Erik kissed her hand instead of her cheek and climbed back inside the cab. He did not tell the man to move off immediately, and Christine knew that he would wait to see that she went inside and reached her apartment safely. With a sigh, she turned and walked quickly up the steps, cursing herself as she went. She should know by now not to probe too deeply into his past; memories of that morning when she snatched away his mask bubbled to the surface, showing her anew his fury, swiftly followed by despair that she should have discovered his secret. That magnificent voice, raised in the most terrible accusations, descending into hoarse sobs fit to break even the strongest heart, filled her ears once more.

Christine let herself into her home, wearily hanging up her cloak. There was so much she had still to learn about the realities of life. She was about to lock up when she heard footsteps in the hallway outside, passing her door once, then twice; opening it a crack she looked out, darting a gaze right and left, but could see no one.

"Erik?" she asked softly, half expecting his familiar shape to detach itself from the shadows.

Nothing happened. The lamp at the end of the passage flickered briefly as though caught in a draught, but there was no sign of anyone nearby. She waited, but the hall remained empty and so she shut the door again, drawing the bolts across, and just stood there for a moment, resting her forehead against the panels.

Perhaps it really was time for bed.


	10. Money For Nothing

**MONEY FOR NOTHING**

Antoinette was tired.

It had been a long day, trying to keep the flibbertigibbet girls with whom she was charged in line and walking gracefully to the beat of her cane; they were worse than even the most brainless of her ballet rats, for at least those girls had a career in their sights and eventually learnt to buckle down and apply themselves. These young misses cared little beyond finding a rich husband, and the contempt in which they held the women attempting to instil in them some poise and elegance was palpable. More than once she had been forced to bite hard on her lip and restrain the reprimand which came immediately to mind; Meg threatened to walk out three times before the lunch break, declaring that she wouldn't spend another moment with the 'ungrateful bunch of snobs'.

The walk home from Madame d'Herblay's establishment was far longer when one had been on their feet for hours; Antoinette knew that she could have taken a cab for Erik would not mind the expense, but she was determined to stop relying upon him. Independence was, after all, the reason she had taken on the job that was really beneath her in the first place. Dragging her weary, creaking bones up the front steps she was longing for a hot bath and trying not to think about the effort it would take to boil enough water to fill the tub when she saw the tall, lean shadow crossing her window. She waited and it moved again, this time in the opposite direction.

Madame Giry groaned. Erik was pacing the floor, and that did not bode well for anyone disturbing him. He had done so much for them over the weeks since the loss of their employment, but that did not make dealing with his moods any easier. It would take a long time for him to become used to the social niceties taken for granted by the rest of the world, to learn the courtesies which should have been taught in early life; he could be charm itself, his manners impeccable, but only until something stirred that formidable temper.

* * *

It took her a while to climb to the third floor, the prospect of an encounter with an enraged Opera Ghost making her dawdle. By the time she unlocked the front door he was waiting in the hall for her, an envelope in one long white hand. She deliberately didn't look at his face for she knew that both flesh and porcelain would be glowering at her; instead she threw her keys on the table and unwound the wrap from her shoulders.

"Good evening, Erik," she said levelly, carefully unpinning and removing her hat. "I trust you had a pleasant day?"

He ignored the question, thrusting the envelope beneath her nose. "Perhaps, Madame, you would care to explain the meaning of _this_?"

"It would appear to be a letter." Taking it, she knew that he was furious; he only used her title when in the grip of annoyance or anger. The stationery looked official: the envelope was creamy white, the paper heavy, and the directions were typed on one of the new-fangled machines. It was addressed to Monsieur Erik Claudin, care of Madame Antoinette Giry at Apartment 27, Rue Bernadotte. Antoinette suddenly had a feeling that she might know what the letter was about.

"That is patently obvious," Erik snapped, whirling around and stalking into the sitting room, coat tails flying behind him. "Precisely how is it that I am receiving missives when no one knows yet of my existence?"

Madame Giry opened the envelope, which had already been sliced with the paper knife, and withdrew the two sheets of notepaper within. The first was headed with lavishly designed scrolls proclaiming Langé and St Just, Music Publishers, thanking Monsieur Claudin for the pieces he had submitted for their approval and informing him that they wished to include three of his compositions within a compilation entitled _Tunes for Drawing Room Recital. _Enclosed was a cheque for – Antoinette inspected the other sheet – fifty francs, with their compliments and hopes that they would be allowed first refusal upon any further work.

"Erik, this is wonderful!" she said without thinking, and missed the deepening of the scowl on his face until it was too late. "Just think of it: your first published music!"

"It may well be that I had no intention of publishing any of my music!" he shouted, the nose of his mask quite suddenly inches from her own. He snatched the letter and cheque from her grip and flung both into the empty fireplace. "What do I want with their money? To have my work alongside those of lesser musicians with their trite, meaningless tunes - "

"Have you stopped to think that if you wish to remain above ground you must do something with your life?" Antoinette interrupted. "You are supposed to be a composer; what will people think if you have nothing to show for it? There is nothing wrong in profiting from your talent; take the moral high ground when you have made a name for yourself and can afford to devote your time to that grand symphony or five act opera."

Slowly, he turned, pivoting on his heel so that they were face to face once more. "I might ask, before you dare to lecture me, exactly how my work came into the hands of Messrs..." He frowned, trying to remember the names.

"Langé and St Just," she supplied, adding, "I took them there. I should have thought _that_ was patently obvious to a genius such as yourself. And before you lambast me for going through your things, I found those tunes in the waste paper basket and assumed that you had no more use for them. They were the kind of pretty piece that sells well to young ladies learning the piano and so I decided to take them along to the publishers and see what came of it. You must admit that I was right to do so, given the outcome; fifty francs for a couple of hours' work is not to be sniffed at, after all."

Despite himself, Erik blinked in surprise. "You took those tunes from the rubbish? I was doing no more than doodling, putting down an irritating refrain which was there in my head when I awoke. Are you seriously telling me that professional men would actually pay for such trifles?"

Madame Giry walked over to the fireplace and retrieved the letter, waving it at him. "This would appear to say as much."

"I would never have believed it." He sat down on the sofa, and she dropped the cheque into his lap. "I suppose I should be thanking you, though I am not sure that I wish my name to be associated with such insignificant work; I have no desire to be thought of as a hack, churning out tunes to order."

Crossing the room to go and put the kettle on, Antoinette dropped a sarcastic curtsy as she passed him. His hand shot out and clasped her arm, and the next thing she knew he was pushing the cheque at her, refusing to take it when she tried to give it back. "Erik, this is yours; you have earned it!"

"And it is high time I paid you for my board and lodging," he replied stubbornly.

"Board and lodging!" She laughed. "It is only because of you that we have managed to remain afloat all these weeks. I hardly need a contribution towards expenses."

"You do now that you are insisting upon squandering your talents teaching the empty-headed girls of Madame d'Herblay's academy," Erik told her, grabbing her hand and closing her fingers over the cheque. "Take it."

"Erik - "

"God damn it, woman, just accept it!" he roared, frustrated. "Go and buy yourself a new hat or something and don't make me any angrier with you than I am already."

It was obvious that there would be no arguing with him, and so Antoinette tucked the cheque into her bodice. "Does this mean I am forgiven, then?" she enquired.

Erik grunted, picking up the evening newspaper. "Don't push your luck."

Knowing from long experience that those four words were all the apology she was going to get, Madame went into the kitchen. Meg would be home shortly, and though she still longed for that bath her enthusiasm for boiling the water had dwindled. She filled the kettle from the faucet and was just setting it on the stove, reaching for the matches to light the gas, when she heard Erik's voice again. She glanced through the doorway and saw that he was at the window, staring down at the street below with consternation written on the visible side of his face.

"What in the world... who the devil is that?" he demanded, beckoning frantically, and she hurried to his side, peering through the glass to see what had got him so worked up.

Christine stood there on the pavement, turning towards the entrance to the building, and she was talking to someone, an unfamiliar young man in a rather loud checked suit and soft brown hat. Though Antoinette could neither hear their conversation nor make out their expressions, the man was leaning towards Christine in a rather familiar manner, and as she watched he grabbed the little soprano's arm, trying to pull her round to face him. She resisted, attempting to free herself from his grip, her free hand raised as though she were about to slap him for his effrontery. Madame's motherly instincts were immediately on alert; respectable gentlemen did not accost lone women in the street.

"I don't know, I've never seen him before," she said in answer to Erik's question, but there was no reply; when she looked around she discovered that she was alone in the room and the front door was slamming, the impact as it hit the frame reverberating around the apartment. She was concerned that the plaster in the hall might be damaged, but that worry was soon exchanged for a much more pressing one when she realised that it was still broad daylight and Erik had just gone outside.


	11. I'll Be Watching You

**I'LL BE WATCHING YOU**

There was someone following her.

Christine had been aware for the last three streets that there were footsteps behind her, mirroring her own far too closely to simply be another person walking in the same direction. She stopped, paused for a moment and then continued on her way; the steps were still there, in time with hers. When she increased her speed, so did they; taking a sharp right turn into a narrow lane between a tumbledown tavern and an apothecary's shop just meant that her pursuer had to think quickly, something they evidently did as after a brief few moments when she thought she might have lost them there they were again, still on her tail.

Angry now, she came to a sudden halt in the middle of the pavement and remained there, waiting for her unwanted shadow to make a move. Other people trying to go about their business grumbled and pushed past her, one or two hurling a few choice insults in her direction as she blocked their way, but Christine stubbornly refused to relinquish her position; she folded her arms and counted the seconds as they passed, knowing that eventually the person on her heels would –

"Hello, Christine. Lovely day, isn't it?"

She sensed rather than saw him appear at her side, and her lips thinned in annoyance as she recognised the voice. "Monsieur Béringer. I have nothing to say to you, so you may as well be on your way."

"Oh, don't be like that, Christine," the journalist said, his tone smooth and full of false bonhomie as he tipped his hat with just the slightest amount of deference. "I only want to ask you a few questions. We could do each other a favour: the article I write will be a major step up for me, and it could do wonders for your career."

"I have no career now that the Opera is closed. And I don't believe I gave you permission to use my name, Monsieur," Christine told him sharply. "Please leave me alone before I call a gendarme for assistance; I know you have been following me around."

"You'll be lucky to find one in this neighbourhood." In a flash he was in front of her, blocking her path as she started walking once more. "Just tell me the truth. That's all I want to know, all that Paris wants to know. That's all I'm asking: the truth about the Phantom of the Opera."

"There _is_ no Phantom of the Opera!" she said, and realised that she had repeated Raoul's words to her, words spoken in the middle of the _Il Muto_ fiasco. How long ago that seemed! Her heart began to beat a fraction faster as Béringer's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There is nothing to tell. Now get out of my way!"

The reporter did not move. "If there is no story, why has the Phantom been the talk of the town for the last few weeks?" he demanded. "Someone must know something, and who better than you, the girl he supposedly abducted?" He cocked his head to one side, regarding her with interest. "What happened, Christine? Don't you want the truth to be heard? Who are you protecting?"

"No one!" Christine snapped. "Stand aside, Monsieur, this conversation is at an end!" She tried to push past him, but he caught hold of her forearm, fingers digging so hard into the tender flesh there that she almost cried out in pain. "Let me go!"

"Not until you tell me what went on in that theatre! Why did you disappear after such a triumphant performance in _Hannibal_? You had the world at your feet and yet you ran away. Where did you go? Was it to him?"

"No!" she exclaimed, tears involuntarily springing into her eyes as he twisted her wrist. "I was scared, overwhelmed! I wasn't ready to have such a role thrust on me!"

"The mousy girl from the back row of the chorus couldn't handle filling La Carlotta's shoes, is that it?" Béringer asked. "Is that what happened in the middle of _Don Juan Triumphant_? You ran again? The gossips are saying that you took a man with you; who was he, Christine? Tell me!"

Christine shook her head, still struggling against his grip. Passersby were hurrying down the street with their gaze averted, keen to ignore the altercation; she tried to make eye contact, to wordlessly beg for help, but no one even glanced in her direction. "Why do you want to know?" she almost screamed in her captor's face. "What does it matter to you what happened? You weren't even there!"

"The editors of every newspaper and journal in Paris will pay good money to be the first with the story of the Opera Ghost," he said, dragging her closer to him so that their faces were almost touching. "Would you remain a penniless hack, living hand to mouth on the few lines they deign to accept from your pen if the opportunity to lay bare the scandal of the century was within your grasp?"

"Are you really so desperate for work that you would treat a woman this way?"

Béringer smiled, and it reminded her of a crocodile she had once seen in the zoo. "I'll do anything I have to, my sweet, when so much is at stake. Now," he said, the smile stretching into a leer, "how about a kiss to seal the deal?"

Christine shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt his hot breath on her cheek. Why hadn't she told Erik about the encounter in the cafe, and the footsteps she heard outside her door at night? He would have dealt with Béringer, warned him off properly; she would never have had to see the repulsive toad again. Now... now she was suffering for her own foolishness. She was the one begging _him_ to trust, and yet she had kept something like this, something so important, from him.

Bracing herself, she made ready to kick out as best she could at Béringer's most vulnerable area and hoped that if she startled him enough he might let her go. Her wrist was burning in his grasp. Trembling, almost overcome with disgust, she waited for the inevitable contact of his lips upon hers, contact which, miraculously, never came.

Béringer's grip upon her arm was suddenly no longer there, and her eyes flew open in surprise to see him being held by the throat against the wall of a dim alleyway which separated the Girys' lodgings from the building next door. Her surprise soon turned to shock when she realised exactly who it was that slammed the journalist against the bricks with a murderous gleam in his eye: Erik had apparently appeared from nowhere to come to her rescue. At first she was elated, but the feeling swiftly evaporated when it became clear what a risk he was running in showing himself in such a manner. The passage was dark and gloomy, but the reporter had still seen him.

"You should be grateful I don't tear off those lips of yours and feed them to the dogs," the Phantom was telling Béringer, his tone as smooth and soft as silk and belying the barely controlled fury in his expression. "Who the hell are you?"

"I should be asking you the same question," Béringer choked out, sneering despite the stranglehold Erik had on his collar. He coughed. "What... what are you: some kind of avenging angel?"

A smile touched the side of Erik's face not hidden by the mask. "You have no idea how right you are, Monsieur."

"Oh, really?" The journalist looked his assailant up and down as best he could, squinting in an attempt to make out his features. Erik's back was to the alley's entrance, and Christine could only hope that the brilliant light of the setting sun would throw his face into little more than shadow and silhouette. "Then why don't you show yourself?"

With a growl, Erik all but lifted Béringer off the ground. "Because I choose not to, little man. I suggest you explain your actions towards Mademoiselle Daae before I lose my patience and break your worthless neck."

"If you do that you'll find it very hard to obtain any information from me," Béringer pointed out, his arrogance never deserting him for a second despite the disadvantage at which he found himself.

The Phantom's misshapen lip curled. "All I have to do is squeeze."

"All I have to do is yell. Do you really want the law here?"

"I could have your life ended and your body disposed of before anyone even realised you were missing," Erik said, a deadly edge to his mellifluous voice, his fingers tightening around the reporter's neck.

"There is a witness, in case you had forgotten." Béringer raised a hand and pointed over Erik's shoulder to where Christine stood, watching the tableau with terrified eyes. "Would Mademoiselle Daae like to have the gendarmes set upon her guard dog?"

At the mention of Christine's name, Erik's head whipped round, his eyes running over her anxiously. "Are you all right? Has he harmed you?"

"A few bruises, nothing more." She moved closer, laying a hand on his arm. The muscles there were like coiled steel; she could almost feel the rage coursing through his veins. "Erik, leave him. He's not worth making a scene over."

His sharp gaze immediately picked out the red mark across her wrist. "He _has_ hurt you," he whispered. "He will pay for that."

"Erik, no - " Christine began, but he ignored her, turning back to Béringer. The reporter, however, had seen an opportunity in Erik's momentary distraction and brought up a fist; it was not an easy movement given his current position, but he somehow made it and before Christine could shout a warning a right hook had connected with the unmasked side of the Phantom's face. It was an awkward punch, but the impact was enough to knock Erik off his feet; cursing, he tumbled to the floor, falling heavily amongst the straw and refuse. She hurried to his side; he was trying to push himself up but his healing shoulder wouldn't support his weight. A thin trail of blood was running down his chin from where his lip had been split.

"You shouldn't let your guard down, Monsieur," said Béringer. His shadow fell across them and Christine looked up to see him trying to smooth his crumpled collar, straightening his tie. He bent down to retrieve his hat, brushing the dirt from it with his sleeve. "It shows everyone where your weakness lies."

"I could tear you in half, boy," Erik snarled, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Just go," Christine told Béringer. "You've done quite enough."

The journalist regarded them for a moment, and then he smiled. She was coming to hate that smile. "All right. But just remember, Christine: I'll be seeing you again. Au Revoir." He dropped his now rather battered hat onto his head and, with a contemptuous gesture towards the seething Erik, he turned and sauntered off down the street. The sound of his cheerful whistling carried back towards them as he vanished around the corner.

"Hateful man," Christine muttered, resisting the overwhelming urge she felt to spit in his wake. Instead she returned her attention to Erik, pulling out her handkerchief. "You're bleeding," she said, and gently pressed the wisp of cambric and lace against his lip.

"Who was he?" he asked. She could almost feel the chill in his tone.

"No one." When he said nothing but continued to watch her steadily she gave in. "A journalist. He accosted me in the cafe a few days ago."

His hand shot out and caught hold of her wrist; it was the same one Béringer had mistreated and she yelped at his touch. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!" Christine cried, but he didn't let go. "Erik, you're hurting me!"

"Why did you not tell me that one of those loathsome creatures had approached you?" he demanded. "What did he ask you about? What did you say?"

"He wanted to know about you; about the Phantom. Erik, please..." she whimpered, tears welling again. The sight of them was enough to jolt him back to reality and he dropped her arm as though it were suddenly unbearably hot. After a moment he tentatively took her fingers between his, lifting her hand to see the damage, face creased in contrition and concern.

"Oh, Christine," he breathed, his thumb making unconscious little circles on her palm, "I'm sorry, Erik is so sorry - "

"It's all right; a cold compress will help it heal soon enough. I haven't been given an Indian burn since I was six. I said nothing, Erik; I told him to leave me alone," Christine said.

"He doesn't appear to have taken the hint."

She glanced down the street in the direction Béringer had taken; people had stopped their business and were watching them as they huddled in the alley, talking and pointing. "We should go inside; we're starting to attract attention."

Erik startled at her words, and peered over her shoulder. Horror sparked in his eyes and he swore emphatically, tilting his head so that the masked side fell into shadow. "I didn't realise. They must have _seen_... must have seen _me_..!" Hurriedly he scrambled to his feet, taking her by the arm and all but dragging her towards the entrance of the Girys' building. Madame was waiting for them on the step, huddled in a shawl.

"You should be proud of yourself," Christine told him. "You came outside in daylight and nothing happened!"

"That damned journalist happened," he snapped."No doubt he'll go home and write an article about the masked freak that attacked him. This is precisely the kind of situation I wished to avoid; I should have stayed underground!"

"Do not be so ridiculous, Erik. In this instance the light was your friend. That alley is dark even at midday; he could not have seen you," the ballet mistress said. "And had you not been here, who would have come to Christine's aid?"

Erik looked at Christine, and she gazed back, watching the emotions chase each other across the visible side of his face as he imagined what might have happened had she faced Béringer alone. "Dear God. He might have... you could have been..."

"I'm fine," she told him, taking his hand and squeezing it reassuringly, "thanks to you."

It was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking. He stared at her for the longest moment and then turned his gaze to the orange ball of the sun as it started to sink gracefully behind the uneven rooftops, burnishing his mask with its golden light. They all stood there in silence, just watching the sky and the pink tint which gradually crept across its serene pale blue, until Madame Giry extended an arm, ushering them inside.

"Come along," she said, as though she were shepherding a pair of children in for their supper, "I think we've all had quite enough excitement for one evening."

Glancing at her bruised wrist and Erik's rapidly swelling lip, Christine couldn't help but agree.


	12. Noisy Neighbours

**Author's Note:  
**

Thank you to everyone who had reviewed! I really do appreciate each and every one.

A little humourous fluff to break up the angst now, in a chapter that has been sitting on my hard drive for weeks while I decided where it should go. It doesn't entirely fit, but I liked it too much to discard it.

* * *

**NOISY NEIGHBOURS**

"Again, Christine. Remember your posture; you are getting out of practise." Erik sounded the note again on the Girys' battered old piano and looked at his pupil expectantly.

Obedient as always where her Angel of Music was concerned, Christine stood straighter and lifted her voice. "_Ah se in ciel benigne stelle, La pietà non è smarrita_," she sang, soaring over the lifts and expertly managing the pronunciation; this Mozart aria was one they had gone over again and again during their initial lessons. Erik raised his hand, conducting the orchestra in his head, encouraging her in the complex trills of which that particular composer had been so fond. Higher and higher she went, closing her eyes as she gave herself over entirely to the music, almost forgetting everything else around her... until she was abruptly brought back down to earth by the sound of a thump from below.

Erik cursed and slammed his hand down on the keyboard. "That is the fourth time in half an hour! What the devil _is_ that noise?" he demanded. "Are you making it?"

Annoyed by the suggestion that she would sabotage her own instruction, Christine rounded on him, skirts swishing, hands on her hips. "No, I am not! How do you imagine I would: hide a hammer under my dress?"

Erik flushed slightly, no doubt at the mental image her words created, and cleared his throat. "Well, then who _is_ making it? I find such constant interruption extremely distracting."

"As do I, but there are a lot of other people living in this building and the walls are very thin. I would think that either someone nearby is putting up shelves, or..."

"Or..?"

"Or it is a less-than-subtle yet universally-recognised request for us to be quiet," said Christine, adding when he looked completely baffled, "The lady in the apartment downstairs evidently objects to my voice and is banging on the ceiling with a broom."

She nearly burst out laughing when Erik's expression changed from confusion to disbelief. He had probably never encountered such a thing before. "Surely you are joking," he said.

In reply, Christine sang a scale, ending with a top E and holding the note for several beats. Almost immediately a series of thumps came from the room below them, louder than before. The woman must be standing on a chair, she thought. Erik was on his feet in a flash, reaching the door in three strides. Realising his intention, she grabbed for his sleeve as he passed, catching it before he could turn the handle and pulling him round to face her. He looked down, frowning at her assault upon his person and the wrinkles she was causing to his jacket.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

He blinked in surprise. "To put a stop to it, of course!"

"You can't do that!"

"Whyever not? The woman clearly has no appreciation for music."

"That's no reason to frighten her to death," Christine said, and when he stared at her continued hastily, "I mean, you are a very intimidating vision for an old lady to find upon her doorstep, Erik."

"All the better," he said curtly and turned back to the door. She tugged on his sleeve again and he made an irritated noise. "What is the matter with you, Christine?"

In desperation, she cried, "You don't know which apartment it is!"

"I'll find out. The building must have a logical pattern to its numbering system."

"Maybe we should find somewhere else to have our lessons," she suggested quickly with a big smile. "Somewhere a little more... secluded? Where we won't be overheard?"

"Christine..." Much to her relief, Erik moved away from the door. "Exactly what did you think I was going to do?"

"Nothing! I don't - " She jumped as he came back across the room towards her, his face set in that forbidding look she knew so well from the glory days of the Phantom. He stopped when they were toe to toe and gazed down at her, the tips of his fingers brushing her shoulders. She tried to restrain a shiver, though whether it was from anxiety or anticipation she wasn't sure. "It's just..."

"Just what?" he enquired, raising his visible eyebrow.

"I don't... I never know how you are going to react," she admitted. "You aren't used to being around other people and your temper - "

His face fell and he was quiet for a few moments, taking this in. Feeling awful, Christine laid a hand on his chest; instinctively he pulled her close and she rested her head on his uninjured shoulder. "Did you... did you actually think I might harm that poor woman?" he asked quietly into her hair.

"I was afraid - " she began, and an odd, pained noise came from his throat. She glanced up, trying to see his face but he had turned it away; moving her hand she rested it against his unmasked cheek, forcing him to look at her. "I was afraid that she might open the door, see you there, all dark and forceful and angry, and drop dead from the shock."

Mismatched eyes met hers, and she could clearly see the confusion dancing across their surface. She held her breath, knowing his mercurial temperament and wondering which way his reaction would go. It was a shock when, instead of becoming angry, he laughed.

"Oh, Christine," he said, shaking his head and leaning down to kiss her. "I do love you."

"I'm very glad about that, as I love you too," she retorted, inwardly happy that he had lost his reluctance to touch her over the past few weeks. He had spent so long imagining that any contact would be repellent to her that now the barrier had been broken he seemed to want to be close to her all the time when they were together, something about which she had no complaints. "What were you going to do when you knocked on that lady's front door?"

"To tell you the truth... I have no idea," Erik told her. "Perhaps I could have educated her, told her that she was privileged to be able to enjoy a free performance from one of the rising stars of the Paris Opera."

"Or you could have taken her broom away," Christine pointed out.

"That too." Losing interest in the conversation, he captured her lips once more, his kisses still a little awkward but gaining in confidence all the time. She was quite happy to surrender to him, and it was only when she heard a jarringly discordant medley of notes that she realised she'd accidentally leant on the piano keyboard. They both waited a moment, listening, and sure enough the thumping noise came from below. Christine couldn't help giggling; reluctantly Erik disentangled himself from her embrace and stalked towards the door again. "I'll burn it," he vowed.

"No, leave it," she begged, keeping hold of his hand so that he had to stop. Seeing the smile that was still on her face he relented. "Maybe we _should_ find somewhere else to go, somewhere with no... intrusions."

He sighed. "Yes, you're right. Perhaps it's time I reclaimed my own home."

"Is that a good idea?" Christine asked, concerned. "It's only been ten weeks since _Don Juan_, and we still don't know what's happening to the theatre."

"All the better to return while the place is empty."

There was a pause, and then Christine said, "You hate it here, don't you?"

For a moment Erik looked as though he was going to deny the accusation, but eventually he nodded. "Hate is a strong word. I feel... stifled."

"Madame is only being such a mother hen because she cares," she reminded him, squeezing his hand. "I know she can be a bit strict, but I suppose I would be too if I'd been bossing ballerinas around for years. She means well."

"I know, it's just..." He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. "Do you remember when I said I wanted you to save me from my solitude?"

Christine returned the gesture, gazing up into his face and wondering whether he would let her remove the mask. Kissing him with it on meant constantly trying to avoid bumping her nose."I think I do."

"That was precisely what I meant. I wanted _you_."

"Ah. I think I understand where you may be going with this, Monsieur. You want us to be able to spend time together without worrying that Meg or Madame might walk in, yes?"

He nodded again. "Preferably somewhere well away from madwomen banging on the floor with cleaning equipment."

This time they both laughed. It felt nice, just standing there holding one another. She was just tall enough to fit her head under his chin; he rested it gently against her curls, humming softly and stroking the ringlets that fell down her back with one hand. Christine felt quite content until a thought suddenly came to her.

"When were you thinking of leaving?" she asked.

"As soon as possible," he replied. "I've imposed on Antoinette's hospitality for long enough."

Another pause. Then Christine said, "Do you want to tell her, or shall I?"


	13. Home Sweet Home

**HOME SWEET HOME**

"I've missed this place," Christine said, stroking the red velvet curtain which hung over the music room door. It was opulent, trimmed with gold tassels, but the gilding and the fabric were a little worn and faded which made her think that Erik might have appropriated it from the prop store in the first cellar above them. She brushed at the dust which clung to the folds and tried not to sneeze as it tickled her nose.

Erik himself was tutting at the fine layer which covered the furniture, testament to over two months away from his house. He stopped running his finger over the hall table and glaring at the smear of chalky white across its pad to glance up at her, surprised. "Really?" he enquired, eyebrow raised. "You honestly missed the silence and the darkness? Why should you hanker after such things when you have a life filled with light?"

"Did you not dream about the light when it was denied you?" she asked.

"Of course. But such a denial was not my choice. There is no reason why you should wish for something like this, for the life that has been mine for so many long years," he said. Abruptly he turned, pushing aside the curtain and opening the door; once inside he prowled the music room much as he had done every other since their return, checking for any sign of intruders. Christine, following in his wake, was pleased and relieved to find that there had been none. Though Meg had assured her that the story she fed to the staff of the theatre the morning after _Don Juan Triumphant_ had worked, and that no one would try to go after the Phantom, Christine still felt apprehensive. While the cast and crew might not have had the best education available, they were very far from stupid and they had seen Erik clearly on the stage that evening. In their position, she was not entirely sure she would believe that the stranger in their midst was merely a singing teacher jumping into the breach and not the man who had been causing disruption to their daily lives for longer than many of them cared to remember.

Approaching the piano, Erik lifted the lid and played an experimental scale. His tongue clucked in annoyance, as it was obvious the instrument had fallen out of tune during his absence. Christine leaned upon the polished wood as she had done so often in the past and watched him as he began to take bound scores and piles of compositions from the bookcase. He sorted though them, putting some to one side, perhaps intending to offer them to the music publishers, and discarding others with a frown. He had told Christine nothing of his success with Messieurs Langé and St Just but Madame Giry had been far more forthcoming on the subject, a little smile of victory on her lips as she revealed Erik's reluctant acceptance of his new status as a published composer.

After listening to the rustling of paper interspersed with the steady ticking of the mantelpiece clock, Christine said as though their conversation had not been interrupted, "It is strange, but I find myself drawn to the darkness. I have always loved this house."

"It is little more than a hole in the ground," Erik replied, his tone distracted.

"It is a very well-appointed hole in the ground." She looked around her, at the elegant but comfortable furniture, the dark Persian rugs and the many lamps and candelabra. It might not have windows and a view, but the underground house was unique, and, in its own way, quite beautiful. Best of all, it was an expression of his personality, of his passions and flair for design. It breathed of Erik, and she loved it even more because of that. "Besides," she added, making him look up once more, "I would happily live in a hole if it meant I could be with you."

"You deserve better," he said, but his eyes appeared to mist slightly. "However, if you can find some comfort here then I am glad for it. This place has seen little beyond misery and frustration in the past."

"Let the past stay past," Christine told him, rounding the piano to lay her head upon his shoulder. "Let us imagine instead the happy times which lay ahead of us."

"You seem very confident that there will be some." He sounded amused. "Have you perhaps been consulting your crystal ball again?"

"No, I gave it up when I realised I didn't have the scarf and gold earrings to truly set it off." she joked, and met his mismatched gaze. "Do you not think that we are due some happiness after everything that has happened?"

Erik sighed. "Forgive me, my dear. Optimism has never been my strong suit."

"We will have to see what we can do to change that," Christine said brightly. He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the music in front of him. She restrained a sigh of her own and wandered away, leaving him to his work.

Though she supposed she could not blame him given the life he had lived, she could not help but feel frustration at his tendency to look upon the black side of things. Where she searched the clouds for the silver lining, it seemed that Erik would always see the imminent rain shower. His moods had only been worse since their encounter with Francois Béringer, and though she tried to persuade him of the futility of such actions, he scoured the newspapers, morning and evening, for any sign that the journalist had turned the scuffle into lucrative column inches. Thankfully there had been nothing so far, but relations had been cool between them for a couple of days following the incident; Christine did her best to convince Erik that she had not neglected to tell him of the reporter's overtures towards her for malicious reasons, but she was still not completely sure that he believed her. She had known that he was not an easy man to understand and she was trying her hardest, but it was difficult not to be confused and sometimes hurt when he could be wildly emotional one moment and as enigmatic as a Sphinx the next.

Christine drifted through the house, taking the opportunity to look properly at the gowns hanging in her wardrobe. She took out one or two, delighting in their colours and decoration, and held them up before her in the mirror, wondering whether she would ever have a suitable occasion to wear the stunning burgundy and cream Worth creation with its wide, scooping neckline, dark velvet train and tiny lace sleeves. In a box on the dressing table she found matching hair ornaments and long cream satin gloves to complete the ensemble. It was hard to imagine quite why Erik had chosen such a dress for her unless he had been dreaming of entering the grand foyer for one of the Opera balls with her on his arm. She would like nothing more, but such an occurrence was so unlikely as to be practically impossible. Thinking of the silent theatre above her head and almost hearing the ghostly strains of a waltz, Christine carefully put the dress away, firmly closing the wardrobe door.

Erik was still engrossed; occasionally snatches of music drifted down the hall as he tried out combinations of notes, and she was surprised by the light, attractive nature of the piece. So many of his works had dark, dangerous undertones that it was unusual for him to be playing something which sounded at times like the trilling of birdsong, even if it was rather off-pitch due to the state of the piano. Christine tried not to feel ignored; after so many weeks away from his beloved instruments it was quite natural that he felt inexorably drawn to them, to the exclusion of all else. The annoyance he felt at being unable to play even his violin had been palpable.

Her feet had taken her almost without her realising to his bedroom. Because it was the scene of her lessons the music room had always been her favourite, but Erik's own chamber held memories of a different nature; it was here that they had taken those tentative steps after admitting their love for one another, and she had helped to nurse him as he recovered from the injury inflicted by one of Raoul's marksmen. Those few days had been some of the happiest of her life so far, and she sat down on the neatly-made bed, remembering the hours when she would just sit and watch him sleep.

The huge mahogany cabinet which held his clothes stood against the opposite wall, and one of the intricately-carved doors stood slightly open. Christine called to him, asking if there was anything he needed to take back to Madame's for the few more days he would stay before returning permanently to his home. Neither of them had yet mustered enough courage to tell the ballet mistress that Erik would be departing. Christine thought she heard him mutter something about another pair of shoes and so she opened the wardrobe, rummaging through the shelves inside to find his footwear. Amid well-worn portmanteaux and battered leather bags that must have come from his travelling days she found various pairs of the black lace-up boots he favoured, choosing the newest-looking and putting them to one side. Looking through a man's personal effects was not something she had done since the death of her father, and she found herself suddenly fascinated by the contents of the cupboard.

One of the bags smelt of Eastern spices, and she inhaled deeply, relishing the unusual fragrance. Erik had more clothes than she expected, having seen him almost continually in those exquisitely-tailored dress suits he wore around the Opera. There was a heavy cashmere winter cloak with a plain velvet collar and a charcoal-grey overcoat that looked brand new. Two suits, one of a similar colour to the coat, the other black, hung next to them, the skirts of the jackets long and full in the style of a gentleman about town; the trousers were perfectly pressed and folded over their hangers and the collar and cuffs of the coats were immaculate, making Christine suspect that they had never been worn. She ran her hand over a row of starched white shirts and found a selection of waistcoats in various different colours, even a deep burgundy that would almost exactly match the dress in her own room. A frown creased her brow; why would Erik buy such garments if he had no intention of ever putting them on?

He called her name, and so she quickly closed the wardrobe door and picked up the boots, hurrying back down the hallway. When she reached him Erik was still at the piano but his head was cocked towards the ceiling and he appeared to be listening intently.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, and so Christine listened too but all she could make out was the ticking of the clock and the occasional swishing of water in the storm drains around them.

"No. What is it?" she enquired.

"I'm not sure. It sounded like... no, never mind. It is probably nothing." He shook his head, turning his attention back to the manuscript sheet in front of him, one of his distinctive green quills in his hand. Christine told herself that when she was once more in gainful employment she would save up the money to buy him one of the beautiful new Waterman fountain pens that she and Meg had seen on their window shopping expedition. She put down his boots on the rich cloth that covered the lid of the piano and he nodded absently in thanks.

Knowing that she would get little more out of him for some time, Christine huffed, blowing out her cheeks, and sat down on the sofa, running her eye over the many books on the shelves in front of her. Erik had an enormous library, evidently collected over many years, but his indexing system was complicated and confusing to anyone but him; the last time Christine found herself searching for something to read she ended up utterly perplexed by the random order of the volumes, which were apparently cross-referenced by subject, author and use in at least five different languages. Amused after watching her try and puzzle it out for almost half an hour, he eventually took pity on her and produced a Jane Austen from a high shelf; she wondered whether she could find it now, as the exploits of Lizzie Bennett and Mr Darcy would help to pass the time in a rather enjoyable manner.

She scanned the shelves for a good fifteen minutes, but the only novels she turned up were well-thumbed Tolstoys and Dostoyevskys in the original Russian and a rather dog-eared copy of _The Three Musketeers _which had evidently seen some travelling judging by the state of the cover. It did not help matters that her gaze kept being drawn to the alcove with the velvet curtains, behind which she knew lurked the mannequin, the doll in her likeness, the sight of which had caused her to faint that first evening in Erik's home. She could not help but be bothered by the thing's existence, but now she felt curiosity rather than fear. Abandoning her search of the bookcase, she made her hesitant way across the room, reaching out to draw the heavy drapes.

Before she could touch them, a hand caught hold of her wrist. Erik gently turned her from the alcove, saying quietly, "Not that, Christine, please."

"I only wanted to see," she told him truthfully. "I remember the dress; such a beautiful dress."

He didn't look at her; his visible cheek was pink with obvious embarrassment. "I am... gratified that you think so. I designed it myself."

"Erik..." Christine said tentatively, "Why did you make it – the doll, I mean? It is rather - "

"I suppose..." He took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he finally raised his head there was the slightest trace of a bittersweet smile on his face. "I suppose I thought it was the only way I could have you here with me. You must accept my sincere apologies, my dear, for such terrible, unforgivable presumption. I will destroy it, I promise you, but in the meantime... please leave the drapes closed. It pains me to look upon my own folly."

She nodded, and caught his hand as he released her wrist. "Thank you. But, Erik... please don't destroy the dress. I hope that one day I will be able to wear it."

"You..." He stared at her, something akin to astonishment in his eyes. "You really want to..?"

"Yes." She found herself trying not to laugh for he looked just like a deer caught in the headlamps of an approaching carriage. "Yes, Erik, I do."

Erik did laugh, his shock crumpling into relief with the sound. "I never thought I would - " he began, and then, to Christine's disappointment the moment was broken as he tensed once more, listening. "There it is again! Tell me you can hear it now," he begged, and for the first time she found that she could. Somehow, incredibly, she could hear voices, and they were coming from the upper levels of the building.

The Opera Populaire was abandoned no longer.


	14. Trespassers Will be Prosecuted

**TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED**

"Erik? Erik, _wait_!" Christine chased after him as he hurriedly donned hat and cloak and strode towards the front door. "How can we possibly hear what is happening above? We are five storeys below the theatre!"

He took down her own cloak from the stand in the hall and draped it around her shoulders. "There are many conduits from the surface through which sound can travel; were there not, we would be unable to breathe easily so deep underground. The tributary which feeds the lake is also an excellent carrier of air... and sound." He tied off the strings which fastened the blue velvet and stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. "I take it you are coming?"

"Of course, but what if they are dangerous, whoever they are?"

Erik pulled back his jacket and gave her a glimpse of the Punjab lasso coiled beneath. "I have been carrying this ever since that _journalist_ – " he invested the word with so much contempt Christine swore she could feel the air freeze around her " – came on the scene. It is better to be safe than sorry."

Waiting while he locked the door, she did not feel entirely comfortable to know that he had in his experienced hands a weapon that could dispatch a man in moments, but she had to admit that she would rather know that they had some means of defending themselves should it be needed. Revulsion made her shudder anew as she remembered the heat of Béringer's foul breath upon her cheek; thinking that she was trembling from the cold of the cellar, Erik swept an arm around her, ushering her down to the little dock and the gondola which bobbed there on the inky water.

It could have been that first night again as they punted across the underground lake, through the mist which hovered over a surface that was as still as a mill pond. A faint greenish glow, natural phosphorescence according to Erik, gave an eerie tinge to the light from the lantern on the bow of the tiny craft, shadows dancing around them and flitting across the cavern roof like spirits. Erik steered the boat with unerring confidence; Christine glanced back to see him standing straight and tall behind her, the motion of his arms strong and steady as he brought the pole from the water before thrusting it down once more to propel them further into the darkness. He looked down and gave her a reassuring smile, but she did not miss the slight wince which passed over his face as he strained his shoulder a little further than it was ready to bear.

She was almost sorry when the gondola bumped against the opposite shore. In moments Erik had helped her alight from the boat and taken her hand, leading her once again through the maze of stairways and tunnels which led to the surface. Much to her surprise, they did not emerge from the mirror in her old dressing room; instead their path brought them out behind one of the statues in the Opera foyer, through a concealed door in the marble base. Sunlight was streaming through the tall windows, glancing from the multicoloured tiles that made up the decorative mosaics and picking out the dust motes which danced in its beams as though caught in a spotlight.

Four gentlemen stood amidst the gold and marble at the top of the grand escallier. The youngest of the group, wringing his hands in a familiar nervous gesture, Christine recognised as Monsieur Remy, the managers' secretary. The others, however, were unknown to her. One was impeccably-dressed, sporting a waxed moustache and an extravagant jewelled watch chain; so tall and thin that he appeared almost to wave back and forth as he stood there like corn in the wind, she mentally dubbed him 'Beanpole'. His companions looked around them at the beautiful decor, the shorter of the two craning his neck to be able to see the murals which graced the ceiling. They appeared to be men of means, for both wore expensively-tailored suits and carried Malacca canes, perfectly-brushed top hats and pearl grey gloves in their hands; their shoes were so highly polished that they reflected the light with an almost blinding intensity. It was quite clear that they had walked no more than a few yards from their carriage before they entered the building.

"Well, Messieurs? What do you think?" Beanpole enquired. "Have you seen enough?"

Christine looked at Erik and mouthed, '_Prospective managers_?' He gave a terse nod in reply.

The two strangers exchanged a glance. Remy's eyes, magnified by the spectacles he wore, blinked almost convulsively. " I think," the taller said, chewing on his bushy, greying moustache for a moment, "I think that, pending an agreement upon the price, which we will discuss further at a later date, we would be willing to take the Populaire on." He looked towards his colleague for confirmation, and the smaller man nodded, more light bouncing from the top of his bald head.

"This theatre has suffered from bad management of late," he added gruffly, "but it was once great and I believe it can be so again with the right hand to guide it."

"Along with astute choices of works, the best cast and crew that can be found and judicious advertising, naturally," the other put in with an ingratiating smile. "We do have some experience in such matters."

Beanpole directed a pointed glance at Remy, and the secretary said, voice wobbling slightly, "Both cast and crew are currently resting upon full pay, and can be recalled at a moment's notice. Of course, replacements will be required to fill the shoes of La Carlotta and Signor Piangi – a Prima Donna and Primo Uomo are vital to the company, but it will not be easy to find such experienced performers at such short not - "

"The source of the funding while the Populaire has been closed is currently unknown," Beanpole said quickly, cutting the secretary off. "The outgoing managers, Messieurs Firmin and Andre, would appear to have left enough money in the accounts to cover the salaries of all staff for an unspecified time." He looked extremely sceptical, as though he did not believe it for a moment. "I am sure, gentlemen, that you have read the rumours circulating in the popular press upon the subject."

"Everyone has," Grey Moustache said, adding with a chuckle, "Some even claim the Opera Ghost is paying for it!"

Beanpole's left eyelid flickered at the mention of the Phantom; Christine turned her attention to Erik and saw that he was standing as still as a statue, jaw clenched and a frown wrinkling the visible side of his brow. "The newspapers will insist upon printing such nonsense. I will get to the bottom of it, I assure you. Monsieur Remy here has a theory that the money was advanced by a patron who wishes to remain anonymous."

Remy nodded. "I have been forced to make a record of the sum in the theatre accounts as such. It has been difficult to piece them together since the disappearance of the original books, but I am hopeful that all will soon be in order."

"We will be bringing our own patron with us," Bald Head announced. "You are aware of the love that the Marquis de Bourges holds for the Opera?"

"Indeed." Beanpole bobbed his head. "Did he not make a donation of a hundred thousand francs to the Nationale only two years ago?"

"He did. We have high hopes that his involvement will do wonders for the Populaire. Of course, we do not wish the Marquis's name to be linked with the theatre until we decide to make a public announcement. I hope we can rely upon your discretion and that of the Ministry?"

Once again, Beanpole nodded. There was a moment of silence, and then he clapped his hands together, the sound ricocheting from the marble like a gunshot. "Well, then, Messieurs, I think that the affair is settled. May I welcome you both on behalf of the Ministry of Arts as the new managers of the Opera Populaire? I will instruct the lawyers to draw up the necessary contracts, but I think that we have made enough - "

"The lawyers can wait a little," Grey Moustache said, waving a dismissive hand. "I suggest we go and celebrate with a bottle of wine or two at that delightful little cafe I saw as we arrived. What do you think, Marigny?"

"An excellent idea, Fontaine," agreed his colleague. "Monsieur Patenaude?"

"It is hardly appropriate for me to be drinking when 'on duty' for the Ministry," Beanpole protested, but Fontaine clapped him companionably on the back.

"Nonsense! What Frenchman can refuse a glass of claret?" he asked. "I expect they have good cheese there, too. Is it a little early for lunch?"

Marigny patted his ample stomach. "Never too early, my dear fellow!"

"Excellent! We can discuss the replacement for Signora Guidicelli over a bottle," Fontaine declared as they started to make their way down the stairs. "Tell me, Patenaude, have you ever heard of an American contralto called Irene Adler...?"

Christine heard no more as Erik's arm was suddenly about her shoulders and she was being ushered back into the passage. The hidden door closing behind them cut off the sound of conversation from the foyer, and it was so dark after the glittering majesty outside that it almost seemed as though the world had just been switched off like an electric lamp. He did not speak until they were back in the fifth cellar, shut away in the warmth and gaslight of his home.

"We will return to Antoinette's so that I can pack my belongings," he said, pacing the hearthrug with long, fluid strides as Christine stood by the door watching him. "The sooner I am here to keep an eye on things, the better."

"Why?" she asked.

It took him a moment to process exactly what she had said. When he did, he stood still, his expression confused. "Pardon?"

"Why do you need to be here?" she clarified, but he did not lose the puzzled look.

"Why? Because I refuse to allow another pair of dolts to mismanage my theatre, that is why! How can you even ask such a question after what has gone before?" He whirled around, continuing on his way.

"Erik." Christine crossed the room towards him, blocking his path. When he tried to step around her she moved with him. His mouth twitched in annoyance. "Have you ever seen those gentlemen before?"

His eyebrow flicked upwards. "Should I have done?"

"Have you any knowledge as to their character, or their ability to run an opera company?"

"Besides that which I gained just now?" he enquired, his tone laden with sarcasm.

"You cannot make a judgement from one overheard conversation," she told him. "I thought that you were going to put the Phantom to rest?"

"The Phantom may be needed! If those idiots turn out to be as bad as the last - "

"Just give them a chance." Christine reached up and straightened his collar, smoothing down the nap of the velvet. She tried her best 'soulful eyes' look, the one that had always held the power to win over her father. "Please? For me?"

For a moment he glared down at her; once Christine would have felt intimidated, but now she simply stared back, holding his gaze. Eventually he sighed, shoulders slumping. "Oh, very well. You know I can deny you nothing."

"Thank you." She stood on tiptoes, kissing the nose of his mask. Her forehead bumped against the brim of his hat, knocking it to the floor, and she couldn't help giggling.

"I am still moving back, though, as soon as possible," Erik warned her, bending to retrieve the fedora. "I must know what is happening, and you will need to be perfect for your return to the stage. We'll resume your daily lessons tomorrow."

"That will mean a confrontation with Madame," Christine said. "Would you like me to come with you, for moral support?"

Erik replaced his hat and exhaled slowly, a rueful smile touching his misshapen lips. "I thank you, but no. Something tells me that I should brave the coming storm alone."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

And I managed to get in a reference to my other main fandom... :) Sadly, Irene won't be making a full appearance as she's off getting entangled with the King of Bohemia and anyone who's read Conan Doyle knows how that turns out. One day I would like to write a Phantom/Holmes crossover, but unfortunately this isn't it.

I'm on holiday next week, so the update will be on a Saturday instead of Friday. Thanks for reading!


	15. He's Leaving Home

**Author's Note:  
**

****I'm back rather earlier than I thought, so here's the usual Friday update. :)

Just realised I've not been attributing the chapter titles, so if anyone's interested:

#1. The Pretenders; #5. The Eurythmics; #8. Paraphrasing Ophelia in _Hamlet_; #10. Dire Straits; #11. A quote from _Every Breath You Take_ by the Police; #15. Paraphrasing the Beatles.

* * *

**HE'S LEAVING HOME**

"And when, Monsieur, were you going to tell me you were departing?"

The Phantom, dressed for outdoors in his hat and cloak, stood with his back to her, the carpet bag in which he had brought his possessions to the apartment open on the bed in front of him. Antoinette was gratified that her words made him jump like a guilty little boy. He turned, an obviously forced smile on the visible side of his face, and said,

"Annie! I wasn't expecting you back so soon."

She gave the familiar black-bordered envelope that lay on the little bedside cabinet a pointed look. "So I see."

"Well..." Erik looked distinctly uncomfortable, twiddling his fingers together as he obviously tried to find the right words. Seeing him at a loss was a novel experience. "As I am quite able to look after myself again it seemed only right for me to reclaim my own home. We have been getting on each others' nerves more often than not lately, and I..." He glanced down at his feet and then back at her, grimacing. "Is this sort of conversation always so difficult?"

"That depends how one goes about it," Antoinette told him, folding her arms. "For instance, if you had come to me and said plainly, 'Annie, I think it's time for me to go home', for example - "

"And how would you have responded if I did?" he asked, interrupting.

"I might have replied that there was no need, that you would always be welcome here and even though we have not always seen eye to eye I have enjoyed your company when you decide to exercise that charm of which you are capable. I cannot in all honesty say that I would miss your moods, or the propensity you have for leaving the newspaper spread all over the floor, but - " She broke off, seeing his undamaged cheek flush with embarrassment, and said quickly, laying a hand on his arm, "Erik, I hope that I have not made you feel that you have worn out your welcome, for that was never my intention."

"Not at all, not at all," he assured her, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "It just seemed that the moment was right for us all to return to some semblance of normality. It is certainly high time Meg had her bed back; I am grateful to her for lending it to me, but no young girl should be forced to compromise her beauty sleep by resting her head upon a pallet on the floor."

"She does not begrudge you her mattress."

"I know. But I am conscious of her lack of comfort every time I lie down upon it. There is also this," Erik added, picking up a folded newspaper from his bag and handing it to her, one long finger drawing her attention to a column towards the foot of the page. Madame Giry read the few lines with a frown.

_Is the darling of the Paris Opera, Mademoiselle Christine, La Daae herself, recovered from the ending of her involvement with the Vicomte de Chagny so soon? It would appear so, as she has recently been seen on more than one occasion in the company of another gentleman, one who is keen to guard his privacy and hers. Though your correspondent has made discreet enquiries it seems that La Daae's latest beau is a genuine man of mystery – who is he, and how has he won the affections of the Swedish Songbird in such a short space of time?_

"_Le Figaro_ is a rag," Antoinette said, passing the paper back. "It is nothing more than idle gossip; ignore it."

Erik put it carefully away in his bag. "It can only have been written by that damned reporter. The last thing I need is a hack poking his nose into my affairs, which is why I think it would be politic of me to go underground once more. I do not want him hanging around here and making things difficult for you."

She snorted in amusement at the thought. "Believe me, Erik; if he tried he would not get very far."

"I do, Madame, I do," he said, arching an eyebrow. "Even so, it is best that I leave."

"And what of Christine?" Antoinette asked as he resumed his packing.

"What of her?" The question sounded casual, but she knew it was anything but.

"How long do you intend to bury yourself for this time? You can hardly protect her if she is above the ground and you below it; if Béringer truly is following her around, how will you know?"

"I have my ways and means. Do not forget to whom you are speaking," Erik told her, carefully folding his dressing gown and laying it neatly on top of the other clothes. "The Angel of Music still has her under his wing."

"And the future? Have you considered that?" she said, and saw his spine stiffen. He stood up straight and slowly closed the bag before turning to face her, his expression unreadable.

"What do you mean?" he enquired, and this time there was a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Oh, Erik." Madame Giry sat down on the bed and patted the coverlet beside her. He looked at her in confusion for some moments, evidently not recognising the invitation for him to sit too, before realisation dawned and he reluctantly took a seat on the very edge, keeping a deliberate foot of space between them. "I know that you love Christine, and it is quite clear that she feels the same way. If you intend this relationship to progress to its inevitable conclusion, have you thought about where you are going to live? You told me that you would not force her to share the darkness, and her life, her career, will not flourish underground."

"Do you think I am unaware of that fact? I have been thinking of it constantly over the past few weeks. But do not think that Christine would shun the darkness, Annie," Erik added before she could speak, "She tells me that she is drawn to it, but I do know that after a while the attraction would wane and she would crave the daylight once more. No matter what she says now, she would resent me for bringing such a fate upon her."

"Then what do you intend to do?" Antoinette asked gently. "If you were forced to make a choice, between Christine and the darkness...?"

Erik stared blankly into the middle distance for some time, and gradually his head drooped into his waiting hands. "I have absolutely no idea," he said, his voice muffled. "I will love Christine until the last breath leaves my body, but however much I might want to walk in it with her like a normal man, the light of day still terrifies me. Darkness is all I know, all I understand."

"Have you spoken to Christine about any of this?"

"Of course not!" His head shot up again and he was suddenly glaring at her for even making such a suggestion. "I have not even dared to ask her if she will have me, even though she..."

Antoinette frowned. "Even though she... what?"

"The wedding dress, the one on the mannequin. She wanted to see it again."

"Erik, I thought that you were going to get rid of that horrible thing - " she began, shuddering at the memory of the doll with its vacant, glass-eyed stare, but he raised a hand, shaking his head.

"She told me that she hoped she would be able to wear the dress one day." Erik's mismatched eyes seemed almost to mist over for a second, and a wistful smile touched his lips. "I used to dream of having a wife, someone I could sit with by the fire and take out on Sundays."

"Then why do you not - "

He startled, those curious eyes going wide, and he jumped up, pacing the short distance to the window. "I couldn't, not yet. It's too soon, much too soon."

"Erik - " She got to her feet, but he shook his head once more, waving a hand to stop her before she got too close.

"No. Please, Annie, just leave it for now. I don't... just leave it."

Madame Giry opened her mouth but before she could speak the sound of the front door slamming echoed down the hall. "Meg," she said simply, listening to the light footsteps pattering from one room to another.

"Maman? Maman, where are you?" the little ballerina called, and then a pair of blue eyes came peeping around the doorframe. They blinked as she took in her mother and the Phantom, and the carpet bag on the bed. "Oh! I'm sorry; am I interrupting anything?"

"No, no, Meg," Antoinette assured her, and Meg brightened, coming properly into the room and waving the envelope in her hand. It was open, but there was another, still sealed, which she passed to Madame.

"Open it, please," she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet with suppressed excitement. Antoinette did as she was told, but before she had finished tearing the paper seal Meg jumped in, crying, "It's wonderful news, Maman! The theatre is reopening! We're being offered our old jobs back!"

Hurriedly, Madame Giry pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and scanned the lines typed there, beneath the crest of the Opera Populaire. The new management, Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine, would be pleased to see her on Tuesday next, for a discussion about her position as ballet mistress and the future of dance within the company. Meg was grinning from ear to ear, making it clear that she had received a similar missive. "Is this true?" Antoinette asked. The letter looked official, but one could never tell. Erik was not the only accomplished forger in Paris. She held out a hand to her daughter. "Let me look at yours."

Meg handed it over. "I must go and see Christine, and find out if she has had a letter too."

"If she has not, the new managers are more foolish than they appear," Erik said, and Antoinette turned slowly to look at him, the heavy paper crumpling between her fingers.

"Did you know about this?" she enquired, fixing him with the stare she used to make hapless ballet rats cower before her.

He cleared his throat. "As it happens, I had been meaning to tell you that there was another reason for my returning home..."


	16. Meet The New Boss

**Author's Note:**

**Eponnia: **I'm very glad you're enjoying the story! In answer to your question, I've seen both JOJ and Peter Joback live with Sofia Escobar, but though I might unconsciously incorporate aspects of their performances (probably most likely with Sofia, as she's the only Christine I've so far seen on stage) I don't deliberately base my characterisations on anyone in particular as there are so many different people and areas from which to draw inspiration. Trista and Peter Cousens (that's him in the pic, though he doesn look rather like Ramin I've just realised!) made the cover image simply because I liked those photos and they went quite well together. :)

This week's chapter title comes from _Won't Get Fooled Again_ by The Who.

* * *

**MEET THE NEW BOSS**

Entering the Opera House, noisy and bustling where it had been so still and silent just a few days before, felt like coming home to Christine. Accustomed to performing from an early age, accompanying her father on his provincial tours and singing at the impromptu, intimate shows that he would sometimes play at taverns and assembly rooms, she had not realised how much she missed it until now. Had she married Raoul and given up the theatrical life she knew that she would not have lasted six months before begging to return to the stage.

The entire building was infused with a feeling of anticipation; as soon as she stepped through the door she could feel a kind of buzz in the air. It was more than the familiar first night nerves, or the usual tension before a performance; whispers and gossip flew around the auditorium and the backstage areas, gaggles of stagehands and ballerinas huddled in corridors or dressing rooms, muttering behind their hands. Everyone's attention was on the two men who sat in the stalls, watching the activity on the stage with Madame Giry on one side of them and Monsieur Reyer or the other, discussing the performers in low tones before expressing their approval with a single nod. Everyone in the building seemed to know that, though they were still nominally employed by the Opera Populaire, their jobs were not secure.

As befitted their positions of authority over the ballet and the chorus respectively, Madame and Monsieur Reyer had been called in two days ago for a meeting with the new managers. Meg attempted to pump her mother for information but had received little for her pains; Madame merely said that they would have to do their very best for Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine wanted only the most competent performers on their stage. No one's position within the company was assured. When Christine questioned Erik he told her much the same thing, the merest hint of approval in his tone, and she gathered that there would be no more La Carlottas, singers well past their prime allowed to cling onto the limelight because they commanded too much influence. He had put her through her paces in a succession of gruelling lessons to ensure that she was at the peak of her powers; though he promised not to interfere and make the newcomers suspicious, he made absolutely sure that they would have no reason to find fault with her voice.

There were butterflies in her stomach as she took her place beside the piano which had been moved onto the stage; she glanced up at Box Five, and though she could see nothing she knew that Erik was there in the shadows. She would always be able to feel the presence of her Angel of Music, no matter where he might be. Monsieur Edgar shuffled his music and settled, hands poised above the keyboard, waiting for her agreement to start the two bar introduction. Taking a deep breath, she nodded and her audition began.

She and Erik had agreed upon _Sempre Libera_, Violetta's aria from the first act of _La Traviata_. It was a piece they both loved, and one upon which Christine worked hard in the days leading up to her return to the Populaire. Remembering the thrill and elation of feeling the notes pour forth from her throat, rising and swelling in the magnificent auditorium and lifting her with them on that first night when she sang Elissa in _Hannibal_, she allowed herself to become lost in the music, to become one with it, to imbue it with her very heart and soul. She was dimly aware of Meg and some of the other ballet rats watching from the wings, of the eyes, jealous and otherwise, of the members of the chorus as they stood behind her, downstage, awaiting their turn, but she barely registered them; there was only Christine and Verdi at that moment, no one else mattered, no one else existed.

_Free and aimless I frolic  
From joy to joy,  
Flowing along the surface  
of life's path as I please.  
As the day is born,  
Or as the day dies,  
Happily I turn to the new delights  
That make my spirit soar._

The cadenza rose and fell as she trilled and skipped, demonstrating her range to those all-important listeners out there in the darkness. In a final flourish Christine held the last note for three beats, four beats, five, six, seven... the room fell silent and one could have heard a pin drop. There was a pause, and she blinked, trying to see beyond the footlights and gauge a reaction. The silence stretched on, the seconds ticked by, and she felt the butterflies returning. Casting a worried look towards Box Five, seeking reassurance, she almost jumped when applause broke out, loud and echoing in the cavernous space. It started in the stalls, but quickly spread to the wings and beyond. Allowing the smile that was inexorably tugging at her lips to blossom, Christine dropped a curtsy; as she did, a familiar voice whispered in her ear, "_Brava, Christine, Brava_..."

"Your audition was perfect, Mademoiselle Daae, absolutely perfect. Wouldn't you agree, Marigny?" Monsieur Fontaine glanced at his partner, who nodded, fixing Christine with a sharp gaze that she almost felt could see through her. She folded her hands demurely in her lap and waited to hear the reason for her summons to the managers' office.

"Oh, quite, quite outstanding. We are very keen to engage your services once again, Mademoiselle," Marigny said. He leaned forwards across the desk, hands clasped on the blotter. "However, to be quite frank we do have one or two... reservations."

"Tiny, _tiny_ reservations," Fontaine added, throwing Christine a reassuring smile. "Mere trifles."

Marigny looked slightly irritated by his colleague's interruption. He harrumphed and returned to his point. "There is the question of your reliability. We have heard rumours – and I am sure that they are nothing more than gossip but we are bound to ask – of sudden disappearances, failure to attend rehearsals and suchlike. I am sure you understand."

Christine wondered whether Erik was listening. She could almost feel danger in the air; it seemed to quiver, like the string of a violin that had just been plucked. Having already guessed that the subject would be raised, she was prepared and said, "I was thrust quite abruptly into the limelight when Carlotta walked out; you must understand how overwhelming that was for me, a mere ballerina suddenly the leading lady. I never expected such a thing to happen."

"Of course, of course," Fontaine said, before Marigny could open his mouth. "It is only natural. However, there is another matter..." He trailed off, and his partner took over.

"My colleague is speaking of the 'Phantom', Mademoiselle Daae. It would seem that, apart from Madame Giry who assures us that there is no truth in it, you are the one member of the company most affected by this business. Have we your assurance that nothing of the kind will happen again?" Marigny asked, frowning. The skin on his bald pate wrinkled as his brow furrowed like a newly-ploughed field. "We are making a considerable investment in the Populaire and would not be pleased to see our capital wasted."

"I am afraid that I have little influence in that direction, Messieurs," Christine told them, certain now that Erik was somewhere behind the wall, watching through one of his carefully concealed spy-holes. "Theatrical folk are naturally superstitious and I cannot change that. However, I do believe that the Opera Ghost no longer haunts this building."

The new managers exchanged a glance.

"Are you certain of that?" Fontaine asked.

"Well, have either of you received any black-edged notes since you arrived?"

"No..." Marigny said slowly.

"Have you encountered any kind of interference since you walked through the door? No disembodied voices, no unearthly singing? No props or set pieces inexplicably moved?" Christine enquired. "Those are the kind of tricks the Phantom was said to play upon those he disliked, though I did not experience such phenomena myself."

"Nothing at all." Fontaine visibly relaxed.

"You must understand that we do not believe in this 'Phantom' ourselves," Marigny added quickly. "But there are such tales... we cannot take over the theatre without looking into these little... occurrences."

"Of course not, Monsieur," Christine said, doing her best to mask the relief which almost made her sag in her chair. Erik's schooling over the last few days, his insistence that she have a story ready should she be questioned, had paid off. "Emotions were running very high last season; I believe the whole business to have been nothing more than superstition and practical jokes, pushed too far, and am sorry that I was caught up in it through no fault of my own."

There was a long silence, during which Fontaine chewed upon his luxuriant moustache while Marigny scribbled furiously in a pocket book. Tension returned, and for some minutes Christine wondered whether she should take that position as a music teacher after all, until at last both managers turned back to her and smiled.

"I think that it is time we put you out of your misery, Mademoiselle Daae," Fontaine said. "We would be delighted if you would consent to returning to the Opera Populaire."

"But not to the corps de ballet, or, I am afraid, as permanent leading lady," his partner put in. "In view of your youth and relative inexperience in such a role, we will still be engaging the talents of a Prima Donna as we feel that a well-known soprano of some stature is needed to head the company."

"However, we do not wish to push you into the back row of the chorus," Fontaine reassured her swiftly, just as Christine was certain she heard an angry growl run round the walls of the office. "Finding a replacement for La Carlotta will take time, and we do not desire a great delay in the reopening of the theatre. It is our intention to begin the new season with a production of _Rigoletto_, and we would very much like you to take the part of the beautiful Gilda."

"It will give you the opportunity to gain more experience, but you will not be under quite so much pressure," added Marigny, his kindly tone much to her surprise for she had put him down as by far the less-approachable of the two. "We have no intention of wasting you, Mademoiselle, far from it."

Once again relief flooded through Christine, and the merest breath touched her left ear, murmuring, "_It will do... for now_..."

"There will, naturally, be an increase in salary to match your new status," Fontaine told her cheerfully. "We cannot have you subsisting upon a ballerina's wage, now, can we?"

"Once the new Prima Donna is in place, we will require you to understudy her roles in addition to those you may be playing in the same production," said Marigny, and she nodded, for such an arrangement was quite normal. Erik usually made sure that she knew the entire score of whichever piece was currently in performance inside out, claiming that it was impossible to understand the whole if one only learned a single part.

"_Such exclusion creates the Signora Giudicellis of this world_," he said once, during a discussion of the many roles within the Opera, "_It means that their performance is entirely divorced from the rest of the company. There is no interaction, no believable relationship; no sense of a coherent story being woven between the characters. There is no passion, only detachment; for all the audience knew last year, Romeo and Juliet could have met that morning at the market! One might as well turn up, declaim a few lines and leave again for all the effect it has_. _The logical conclusion to such an approach would be to have each member of the cast appear on stage in isolation... it would be a novel idea, but not one, I think, that would go down well with an audience_."

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine jumped, and realised that the managers were looking at her curiously. "Mademoiselle?" Fontaine asked tentatively. "What do you say?"

"_Christine_..." sang that little voice in her head. "_Christine_..."

"Thank you, Messieurs," she said, forcibly returning herself to the present. She smiled, knowing that her Angel approved. "I would be delighted to accept your offer. When do we begin?"


	17. The Way Old Friends Do

**Author's Note:  
**

This week's chapter title is taken from the final track on ABBA's album _Super Trouper_.

* * *

**THE WAY OLD FRIENDS DO**

"You want to do what?" Erik asked, turning around on the piano stool to send a frown in her direction.

"I want to cook you dinner," Christine repeated. She was beginning to wonder whether her idea for something nice with which to surprise him had been an entirely sensible one given the way he was behaving. Anyone would think that no one had ever done anything spontaneously kind for him before, she thought, and then realised that, in truth, they probably hadn't. "You've cooked for me before and I wanted to return the favour; thing are so busy now that I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together that isn't connected with lessons or rehearsals."

"Oh." He looked rather taken aback, the frown vanishing as his eyebrow arched in surprise. "Oh, I see. Yes, that would be pleasant, but..."

"'But...'?" There was obviously an objection coming, and she steeled herself for it.

Erik sighed and waved a hand towards his mask. "I cannot eat properly with this on. I fear I would not do justice to your efforts."

Christine sat down in the armchair, putting her basket down on the floor at her feet. "I will cook whatever you want me to," she told him, reaching out to cover the hand which rested on the ivory keys with one of her own. His fingers were cool and soft. "If necessary I will make a soup, if that is easier for you, but do you not feel able to remove the mask in front of me? You know that I am not bothered by your face, and I would rather you felt you could leave it off within the comfort of your own home."

"Oh, my dear." He seemed much smaller all of a sudden, very vulnerable, as he sat there, gaze fixed on the sheet music on the stand in front of him. "You should not have to look upon this abomination that stares back from the mirror; it is enough to put _me_ off my food, let alone those less used to it. Watching me eat is not... well, let me say that it is not a pretty sight."

"Meg and Madame Giry must have seen you," she pointed out, but he shook his head.

"Antoinette, yes, but not Meg. I would not make her endure it; I made sure that I took my meals when she was elsewhere. Her mother, whether I like it or not, has seen all of me; I have no secrets from her, not now."

Christine rose, crouching down beside him so that she could see the part of his face he did not hide from the world. "Would you keep secrets from me?" she asked gently.

"Were I given the choice, never," he said sadly, "but there are some things that I would not have you suffer and my face is one of them. You are so young and lovely... why would you wish to gaze at my ruined features? Only beauty should touch your eyes."

"Oh, Erik." She pressed his hand to her cheek, holding it there between both her own. "I love you, and _I_ want to see all of you. Do you not realise that I have grown up and learned to accept you for who you are? I am no longer the frightened girl who ran from you that morning."

She felt his fingers touch the top of her head and closed her eyes as he softly began to stroke her curls. "I truly do not deserve you," Erik murmured. "Sometimes I wonder whether you really are an angel, sent to redeem this old sinner."

"If that is true, then you have no need to wonder," Christine said, sitting up so that she could meet his gaze. "The Lord must have seen that there was potential within you or he would not have brought us together."

He grimaced and gave a humourless laugh. "Indeed."

"Erik." She reached out, laying a hand upon the cold porcelain of his mask. "Let me see you. Please. There is no need for you to hide here."

At her touch he stiffened, his head drawing back a fraction. While he was ill he had allowed her to see his deformity, to stroke and caress it, but since his recovery he retreated behind his shield as though afraid that too much exposure to his true self might somehow drive her away. Saddened, she let her hand drop to her side. There was sorrow in Erik's odd eyes, too, and with another sigh, heavier than the last, he traced a finger down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I am trying, but this is not... easy for me. Just... just give me time."

Christine's response was to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close.

* * *

Their conversation resulted in her mood being rather subdued as she made her way around the shops and the market.

After thumbing furiously through her recipe books she had eventually decided that a casserole would be sensible; she could leave it to cook slowly while she was at rehearsal and Erik would not find it too difficult to manage with his mask. Picking up the small package of beef from the butcher's counter and putting it in her basket Christine reflected that, now he was ensconced once more in his twilight world beneath the theatre, he seemed to be reverting to all his old habits, shunning the daylight and spending his nights stalking the hallways. He had been doing so well, or so she had thought, but now they seemed to be going backwards, any progress he had made evaporating as the Phantom began to return.

She tried not to feel despondent as she passed the plate glass window of the Cafe de l'Opera, glancing at the happy couples within and knowing that there was a real chance she might never be able to sit there with the man she loved, sharing a meal and a bottle of wine and just indulging in each other's company while the rest of the world went about its business, completely disregarding them because they were no different from anyone else. For a while she stood there, just watching the scene inside the cafe, seeing Maurice expertly weaving his way amongst the tables, exchanging a word or a joke with regular customers; Christine felt like a small child outside a toyshop, nose pressed against the glass.

Eventually she tore herself away; she had things to do before returning to the theatre and another chaotic _Rigoletto_ rehearsal. Monsieur Pevitt, the conductor, had walked out after a particularly explosive row with Monsieur Reyer and the musical director was tearing his hair out trying to cope with both musicians and singers at the same time. The first bassoon and third trombone were both making trouble and it was getting very difficult to concentrate. Erik was just itching to interfere, but she begged him not to, counselling against revealing his continued presence in the building. He had acquiesced for the moment, but Christine knew that if the difficulties continued she would not be able to stop him taking a hand in proceedings.

Turning away from the cafe she barely noticed someone walking close to her in order to avoid other pedestrians until she had crashed into them. Her basket fell to the floor, the onion and carrots she had bought rolling this way and that; with a cry she dropped to her knees, desperately trying to recover them. A strong male hand swiftly retrieved the basket and held it out to her as a familiar voice said,

"My sincere apologies, Mademoiselle; I'll make good any damage. Are you – Good God. Christine!"

She looked up quickly to find herself meeting a pair of wide blue eyes, the sandy brows which framed them raised in surprise. The boyish face was just the same, of course, there was no reason why he should have changed at all in three months, but he was wearing a navy blue uniform, its gold lacing restrained compared to the Hussar costume he had worn for the Bal Masque, and his fair fringe had been cut quite short. His expression was a mixture of shock and embarrassment. "Hello, Raoul," she said, taking back her basket.

With a shaky smile, he handed her the errant onion. "You're the last person I expected to see, out here on the street," he confessed.

"I am allowed out sometimes," Christine said, a little nettled by the implied assumption that Erik kept her locked up underground. "We do have to eat, after all." She softened when he winced at her tone. "I didn't expect to see you, either."

"I have a few days' leave before I transfer to a training ship. How are you?" he asked, blue gaze searching her face. "I heard that the Opera was to reopen."

She blinked, her turn to be surprised. "I wasn't aware that it was common knowledge."

Raoul shrugged. "Word gets around. Actually, Philippe told me; he might have thrown over Sorelli but he still hears things. He tells me that the Marquis de Borges has eagerly taken his place as patron."

"He would know more about that than me," Christine said, distracted as she heard a nearby clock chime twelve. "I'm sorry, Raoul; I have some errands to run before rehearsal."

"May I walk with you?" When she didn't object he fell into step beside her. "He's a good man to have on side, old de Borges," he remarked lightly. "A bit of a roué who's too fond of ballerinas for his own good, but he's a decent enough sort. Dandled me on his knee once when Mama insisted that we children be paraded at one of her parties."

"He must have taken a shine to you."

"Hardly. I was all golden curls and petticoats back then; he thought I was a girl." Raoul smiled when she giggled at the image. "How are you, Christine? Really?"

"I'm well," she told him truthfully. "My life at present suits me."

"And your Phantom - " She shushed him, glancing around lest someone overhear " – oh very well, your Erik – is he - ?"

"He is recovering nicely, thank you. The doctor believes that the bullet did no permanent damage."

Raoul lifted an eyebrow. "Then why did you look so sad just now, before I bumped into you? If that - "

"No, no, it's nothing like that," she assured him quickly.

"If you say so," he allowed, but did not look convinced. She knew that however hard she tried she would never be able to persuade him that, despite what he had done, Erik was intrinsically a good man; there were far too many shades of grey for a more simple soul like Raoul to understand. "You do know that you can tell me, don't you, if he ever... if things get too - "

"I know, and I am grateful to you for still caring." Christine forced a smile and decided it was time to change the subject. "You're looking very dashing in that uniform. I was surprised to hear that Philippe had permitted you to join the Navy; are you not his heir?"

"Not for much longer," Raoul said gloomily, adding when she looked confused, "He's finally getting married. Said he can't afford to have me dragging the family name into disrepute any more."

Recognising that the Comte's barb was directed at her, Christine rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. The de Chagnys had never approved of their relationship, had done their best to show her barely veiled contempt and disapproval during the months she lived with them as Raoul's fiancée; though he was old enough to make his own decisions, it was made quite clear that they thought a penniless chorus girl, however much he loved her, utterly beneath him. "I'm sorry, Raoul," she said, and meant it.

"I'm not. It relieves the pressure enormously," he declared, and this time it was her turn to look sceptical. "No, really, it does. It means I can finally live my own life, instead of being continually in his shadow. I can actually _do_ something, and you remember how much ships always fascinated me."

"I do." A memory, long pushed to the back of her mind, of him sailing model boats on the pond behind the house in Perros where he was staying with his governess, blossomed in her mind's eye. He tried to teach her all the nautical terms, to make her his first mate, but she got easily confused, much to his frustration. She had to swallow against the lump that had appeared in her throat. They had been such good days. "As long as you're happy," she told him.

"I think I can be," he said, and it was a noncommittal answer which would have to do.

They had crossed the Place de l'Opera and reached the grand facade of the theatre. Christine glanced up at the imposing white stone, the gilded statues on the rooftop just visible from this angle, reaching up into the cold, cloudless sky. "Well, here we are."

"Indeed. I suppose I should be getting along; I may be escaping his influence but my brother does not appreciate it if I am late." Raoul grimaced, and hesitated as if not sure how to take his leave of her. After a few moments he held out a hand. "It was lovely to see you, Lotte."

It was her old nickname, falling so easily from his tongue in another reminder of all that they had shared. She took the offered hand and he shook it, his grip firm and lingering just slightly as they both pulled away. They looked at each other, suddenly unable to speak, and so Raoul took the initiative, striding back across the square and throwing her a jaunty salute before he was swallowed up in the press of people on its fringes.

Christine felt a tear trickle down her cheek and she dashed it away furiously, turning towards the Rue Scribe and the entrance to Erik's home.

* * *

After preparing the food and banking up the fire in the range so that she could leave it to slowly cook, she made her way to the auditorium and another difficult rehearsal.

This time Monsieur Reyer was threatening to walk out, claiming that the managers were not listening to him and it was beyond even his means to deal with so many performers all at once. Alphonse Renard was complaining about the false hump he was being made to wear as the crook-backed jester, one of the sopranos in the chorus, relegated to a mezzo role, told everyone loudly that such disorganisation would never have happened under Monsieur Lefevre, and the wardrobe mistress, Madame Michon, ran around in increasingly tired circles, pinning here and adjusting there, trying to make something of costumes from storage which were more than twenty years old. It seemed that Marigny and Fontaine were reluctant to spend much money until everything, including new leading players, was in place.

"Your teacher, Mademoiselle," Reyer said to Christine at one point, when he stood to one side mopping his brow and watching an argument between Renard and Marius DuPre, who was playing the Duke, threaten to break into a fight, "I am told by Madame Giry that he is her cousin and a remarkably talented man. Do you think he might consent to assist us if I suggest it to the managers? The way things presently stand there is no other chance of us being ready in a month's time without some kind of divine intervention; it was so much easier when everyone was in the thrall of the Phantom!"

It was so unusual for the musical director, a tartar and a perfectionist, to ask for help, and from one of the singers to boot, that Christine was momentarily speechless. When she registered exactly what he had said she replied guardedly, "I will ask him, Monsieur, but he is very shy, almost reclusive. He does not care for crowds."

"If you do so, and he agrees, I shall be forever in your debt. He created something of true beauty with your voice, Mademoiselle, and we are in need of a man who can work miracles!" Reyer declared, hurrying off to stop his principal artists coming to blows.

Christine considered his request as she descended to the fifth cellar once more, wondering how she would put it to Erik. She knew that he would be reluctant, but seeing the company in such a shambles might convince him that his guiding hand was needed.

There had been no sign of him while she was making the casserole earlier, and for the first time since his return he was not waiting by the boat. His absence surprised her, but by now she did not really mind punting herself across the lake, practise making her ever more adept at guiding the gondola through the currents. She jumped out when it bumped against the jetty on the opposite short and carefully tied it up, making her way towards the hidden door in the rock.

"Erik?" she called as she entered the gas-lit hallway, hanging up the cloak she had worn against the cold of his labyrinth. "Erik, are you there?"

The door to the music room opened and his shadow fell across the Persian carpet. "Would you care for a glass of wine, Mademoiselle?" he enquired, offering one as she approached.

Christine barely even noticed the proffered drink. She was too busy gazing up into his face, his _unmasked_ face. He stood quite still, eyes averted, allowing her to see him in all his glory, the light playing over the crevices in his twisted cheek and sending strange shadows from the irregular lumps and bumps which dragged down his eye and distorted what should have been the left side of his nose. His teeth gnawed at his bloated lower lip; beneath the fine linen of his shirt his thin chest rose and fell quickly as he obviously struggled to restrain panic, his long fingers clenched around the delicate stem of the wine glass.

Silently, Christine walked up to him. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then she stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to kiss the mangled flesh, stroking the thinning hair at his temple. She moved her lips to meet his, and a long, stuttering sigh escaped him. Drawing away slightly, she met his mismatched gaze with a steady one of her own.

"I think dinner should be just about ready," she said quietly, and he nodded, closing the door behind them.


	18. We Don't Need No Education

**Author's Note: **

Chapter title comes from _Another Brick In The Wall_ by Pink Floyd.

If you don't know the tune to _La Donna E Mobile_, I recommend looking up the version sung by Luciano Pavarotti on Youtube. :)

* * *

**WE DON'T NEED NO EDUCATION**

Christine wanted to hide her face in her hands.

They were rehearsing Act Three and she was crouched behind the open window of a set piece, a run-down tavern in a low part of town, Alphonse Renard at her side, as Rigoletto tried to convince his infatuated daughter that the man she loved was not worth her affection. On the other side of the scenery, Marius DuPre was getting ready for his opening air, _La Donna E Mobile_ (_How Fickle Women Are_), puffing himself up and strutting around the 'room' like a turkey cock. To one side, Augustine Albert, the rather sour-faced soprano who had been Carlotta's understudy for many productions and who obviously thought she should have been given Christine's part, lounged awaiting her cue to enter the scene as the woman Marius's Duke would attempt to seduce.

"We should have done something cheerful," she groused in voice just loud enough for everyone nearby, including Monsieur Reyer, to hear, "_The Marriage of Figaro_, perhaps, or something by Rossini; something to give everyone a bit of a lift."

Alphonse snorted. "Rubbish. The paying public love a good tragedy; it's what brings them out to the theatre in the first place."

"That's just as well, since our dear Monsieur DuPre is doing a very good job of dying on stage," Augustine said, shooting the preening tenor a glare. "If he tries to fondle me once more like he did last time he won't be chasing after the girls down at the Moulin Rouge for a month!"

Marius turned. "I can assure you, Mademoiselle, that after my initial explorations I have no desire to discover anything further about your person. There is very little of it _to_ fondle!"

"Why you - " She stalked towards him, hand raised to aim a slap at his smirking face, but he caught her wrist, lowering it out of range. "You are a bastard, Marius," she snapped.

"Calm down, my dear, and remember your character. At least try to look interested in my advances." He slipped an arm about her waist.

Augustine tore herself away, putting a safe distance between them. "I only wish I really _did_ have an assassin for a brother; his dagger would be between your ribs in a heartbeat!"

When Marius's reaction was merely to laugh, Monsieur Reyer took the opportunity to interrupt. With a heavy sigh, he called out, "Settle down, please, settle down! We will begin again, from 'Ah, my father!' Mademoiselle Daae, if you please."

Christine dutifully sang the line, which was followed by an exchange between Rigoletto and the assassin, Sparafucile. The latter's aside, "Oh! The fine gentleman!" was the signal for Marius to enter and the orchestra struck up the famous refrain of one of Giuseppe Verdi's best-known works. The tenor sang with gusto, constantly on the move and gesticulating extravagantly. It was an overblown performance, one which had Reyer shaking his head and Alphonse openly guffawing.

Infuriated by his colleague's mirth, Marius spun round to face him through the window. "I suppose you think that you could do better?" he demanded.

Alphonse raised an eyebrow. "I know that I could."

"Even though the part is written for a tenor, which you are quite obviously not?"

"Well, it is meant to be within your range and yet you seem to be making a complete dog's breakfast of it," came the calm reply. "Perhaps someone else should be given a chance."

Marius's ruddy face turned puce, and then an alarming shade of purple. Christine fixed her eyes on her libretto, desperately hoping that the floor might swallow her up. The two singers had been like rival tom cats marking their territory ever since returning to work, both with their eye upon the vacant position of Primo Uomo. They jockeyed for position at every rehearsal, any dedication to their art or the piece they were performing completely disregarded. It made the atmosphere distinctly uncomfortable for everyone else, and Christine exchanged frequent glances with Meg, who practised with the corps de ballet out of the firing line, wondering if she were the only one wishing for an intervention from the Opera Ghost.

* * *

"_You are joking. You _must _be joking."_

"_Why would I joke about something like this?" Christine asked, rather worried by the way that Erik suddenly sat up straight as though someone had pushed a ramrod up the back of his waistcoat. There was a muscle twitching above his eyebrow. "Monsieur Reyer is asking for your help!"_

"_Only because he has no idea who I am, you foolish girl!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet to pace about the room as he always did when agitated. Madame Giry paid him no attention, continuing with the needlepoint she had produced from her bag, while Meg watched with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Erik made two circuits of the room before coming to rest before Christine's chair, arms spread helplessly. "Look at me, Christine. Do you honestly believe that Reyer would wish for assistance from the man who terrorised the theatre for so long?"_

"_He doesn't need to know," Christine told him, adding, "And I don't think it is foolish of me to want some recognition of the part you played within the Opera all these years; it is quite obvious that without you we would have fallen apart some time before the arrival of Andre and Firmin. Monsieur Lefevre knew nothing about music, did he?"_

"_He had a tin ear," Madame remarked, pushing her needle through the canvas onto which she was stitching a vase of flowers. No one ever saw the end results of her work; once she had finished the pictures she put them away in a drawer, their usefulness in giving her something with which to occupy her hands at an end._

"_The rehearsals are a nightmare," said Meg. "No one can agree, Monsieur Reyer can barely keep order and the managers seem to be leaving us to sink or swim. When the theatre reopens everyone will come to see us and laugh; our reputation as a company will be ruined."_

_Christine looked at Erik. He had turned away, his chin sunk low on his chest and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "How can I do such a thing?" he asked quietly. "How can I possibly walk among them after all that has gone before? They would fall upon me and lynch me from the nearest lamppost and it would be no more than I deserved."_

"_They have no idea who you are. As far as anyone is concerned you are my cousin and Christine's maestro," Madame Giry said bluntly before Christine could even open her mouth. "Incredibly, Buquet's ridiculous stories have worked in your favour: no one could possibly look like the spectre he conjured, and he never once mentioned your mask. Even underneath it you have some semblance of a nose, and as you are quite plainly not a walking skeleton with a flaming death's head I doubt if they will put two and two together."_

_The visible side of Erik's mouth twitched. "Thank you for the compliment, Annie. Such flattery! I shall try not to become too conceited."_

_As her mother gave an unladylike snort, Meg piped up, "Surely, the best way to prove that you're not the Phantom is to appear amongst them, as yourself – you can hardly be on the stage and in the rafters at the same time."_

"_The Phantom is a role you once played," Christine added, pressing a gentle finger against his lips as he tried to object. "It is a role you have now left behind."_

"_Like a snake shedding its skin."_

"_The Opera Ghost is not being asked to share his expertise; it is Erik Claudin's assistance which is being sought. And we need it, quite desperately," said Christine. "You must have seen how things are progressing; a tragedy is fast becoming a farce. As Meg said, we shall be laughed off the stage."_

"_It is true that rehearsals are not being managed as I should wish," Erik conceded. _

"_Then do something about it," Madame Giry told him, stabbing an unfortunate sunflower with her needle. "If nothing else, be your usual self and bang those idiots DuPre and Reynard's heads together. Everyone will thank you for it."_

* * *

"Gentlemen, please, a little decorum," begged Reyer from the side of the stage. "From the beginning once more, Monsieur DuPre, and this time try a little subtlety. The Duke is somewhat larger-than-life, but there is no need to stray into caricature."

Marius scowled, but he nodded and the musical director gave the signal for the orchestra to strike up the introduction once more. When the cue came for the tenor to sing, he opened his mouth but to Christine's surprise the voice that emerged was not his own. It was stronger, better trained, capable of a much wider range and she knew it so very well as it glided ethereally around the auditorium, sounding as though it came from everywhere at once.

_How fickle women are_

_Fleeting as falling star_

_Changing forever_

_Constant ah! Never_

_Like feathers flying_

_On the wind hie-ing_

_Ever in motion_

_Like waves on ocean_

Monsieur Reyer looked around, frowning in confusion, while Marius became agitated, his head moving back and forth as though he were watching a tennis match. Beside Christine Alphonse was apparently enjoying his colleague's discomfiture; Augustine's mouth fell open in shock. The orchestra had fallen silent, muttering amongst themselves, but the voice continued without accompaniment, confident of its own power and beauty. Gradually Erik's rich tenor began to lose the ghostly quality with which it had been imbued thanks to his ventriloquist's techniques, and Christine squinted, trying to see the very back of the house, where she was sure he must be standing in the shadows.

"He's here – the Phantom of the Opera!" cried Giselle, only to be slapped down by Madame Giry.

"Who's there?" Marius demanded, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Who dares to mock me in such a way?"

There was no reply but the next line, the voice becoming louder, as though its owner was walking towards them.

_Yet there's no feeling_

_Love's pleasure stealing_

_Like that of sealing_

_Their lips with a kiss_

Marius stalked towards the edge of the stage and Christine decided to duck round the set piece, emerging properly onto the boards, wanting to be near in case Erik should need help. She heard Alphonse and then Augustine follow but ignored them. When she reached him Marius was trying to peer through the glow of the footlights to see his tormentor.

"Come out and show yourself!" he shouted into the darkness.

_Their lips with a kiss!_

_Their lips with a kiss!_

As the final lines died away Christine knew that Erik was standing just below them, in the aisle at the front of the stalls. He stepped forwards and she could see him at last; he was wearing one of the morning suits she had seen in his wardrobe, the charcoal one with the pinstriped trousers, and clutching his black fedora in both hands, turning it round by the brim. His fingers were trembling and she realised that, despite the power of his impromptu performance, he was nervous. In what was probably an unconscious movement, he inclined his head so that the mask fell into shadow.

Marius stared, before exploding, "Who the hell are you?"

Erik cleared his throat. "My name is Claudin," he said. "I believe you are expecting me?"


	19. Allow Me To Introduce Myself

**ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF**

"My name is Claudin; I believe you are expecting me."

Though he tried very hard not to show it, Erik was shaking like a leaf. He had never given his real name to anyone in public before. Until recently only Antoinette had been entrusted with his identity; even Charles Garnier, when adding him to the books during the construction of the Opera House, had been sworn to secrecy. The architect had been suspicious, but eventually agreed, desperate for Erik's experience and technical expertise. In voicing his name now, hearing it echo through the silent auditorium, he suddenly felt quite naked, horribly vulnerable. He clenched the brim of his hat, the only part of his usual attire that he refused to abandon, between his trembling fingers and fought hard against the instincts which told him to replace it and pull the brim down to disguise his mask.

"Cousin Erik!" a small voice called from the back of the stage, making him jump, and Meg fluttered into view, all golden curls and white tulle, smiling delightedly. "You came!"

There was a long pause, during which time everyone stared at him and he fervently wished he could retreat into the shadows, away from their prying eyes, before the idiot tenor Marius DuPre recovered his voice and demanded, "Who is this fool and why does he dare to interrupt our rehearsals? Are you intending to replace me, Monsieur?"

"Perish the thought," Reyer muttered, turning away and heading towards Erik with a beaming smile on his face. Erik almost took a step backwards as the normally short-tempered musical director jumped down from the stage, took his hand and shook it warmly, exclaiming, "Monsieur Claudin, thank you so much for agreeing to attend. Mademoiselle Daae was not certain that you would, but here you are and you have my eternal gratitude. I am delighted to meet you at last!"

Rather nonplussed by this effusive greeting, and from Reyer no less, Erik could only manage a faint, "Your servant sir," in reply, while trying to disentangle his hand from the death grip that the other man seemed to have upon it. The strain of dealing with too many unruly performers was clearly showing upon Reyer's face; even La Carlotta's tantrums had not produced so many lines upon his forehead.

There was a rumble of discussion moving from the orchestra pit to the stage as the various members of the company muttered to one another, taking in the new arrival in their midst. Erik tried to ignore the interested glances they shot him, telling himself that this was not like the blatant curiosity and contempt he had experienced during those terrible years trapped in the travelling carnival; even so he could still feel their eyes upon him and it took all of his formidable to control not to turn away and vanish back into the darkness. His face became hot beneath the mask, his palms slick with perspiration.

"Are you not going to introduce us to this gentleman, Monsieur?" enquired Alphonse Renard. Erik looked up to see the baritone lounging against a rough wooden table that made up part of the set; Christine stood beside him, dressed in what appeared to be a partially-altered peasant costume from _William Tell_, her hair in girlish plaits. She gave him an encouraging smile as she met his gaze, her cheeks flushing prettily.

Reyer made his way back onto the boards, motioning for Erik to follow him up the steps. This was quite a novelty, actually being _invited_ on stage; his only previous experience had been his impromptu appearance during _Don Juan Triumphant_, and before that his lonely, nocturnal excursions, haunting the theatre when everyone else had gone home. He had grown used to seeing it from the vantage point of Box Five, or the bird's eye view he obtained high up in the flies. It was quite different here, in the bright limelight, on the same level as everyone else.

The muttering had grown louder, and Reyer clapped his hands, calling for quiet. "Thank you," he said when the noise died down. "Now, I am sure it has not escaped your notice that there is some... tension in the air. We are suffering from the loss of Monsieur Pevitt, and though the managers are trying to find a replacement as quickly as possible it is quite clear that if we are to be ready in time to open the new season next month we need some assistance. Monsieur Claudin has graciously agreed to make use of his skills in directing the chorus, while I concentrate upon the orchestra. He has been Mademoiselle Daae's maestro for some time, I believe, and we can all bear witness to his remarkable achievement there. I hope" the musical director shot a glare towards the singers who stood around the table "that you will all welcome him to the company."

Christine blushed as everyone now turned to look at her. There was a brief smattering of applause that Erik suspected must have come from Meg and one or two of the other ballet rats, and then someone shouted from the wings, "Claudin? I know that name! Don't you write fluffy practise tunes to help stuck-up middle class girlies learn the piano?"

"Which stuck-up middle class girlies have you been getting your wicked way with, then?" asked someone else, much to the amusement of the crew.

"I didn't know you could read French, let alone music!" added another. "You must have hidden talents!"

Erik felt his face colour and he let go of his hat for a moment, fingers searching vainly for the Punjab lasso at his side. Before he could even open his mouth he heard the sound of Antoinette's cane striking the boards and she said coldly, "Every man has to make a living, Christophe Fortier. Perhaps you should try it some time."

There was a snigger from somewhere amongst the ballerinas and Erik had to bite hard on his lip, feeling a smile start to steal across his face as the stage hand in question turned a fetching shade of beetroot red. Fortier was well-known for standing around and swigging from a bottle of cheap claret while everyone else did the work; in some ways he was a natural heir to Joseph Buquet, though he was thankfully more of a nuisance than a genuine danger.

Reyer turned to Erik, evidently interested. "You are also a composer, Monsieur?"

"I... dabble," Erik replied, trying to retain his composure. Watching the company from above and issuing directions was one thing; it was becoming quite clear that doing the same amongst them, subject to argument and catcalls, was going to be quite different. He was starting to wish that Antoinette had never talked him into it, that he had issued a clear refusal and not allowed her to work on him once Meg and Christine were gone. The loss of the Phantom was making him soft, he decided.

"You must tell me about it," the musical director said. "And published, too! I have been offering my own humble scratchings for sale over the years but no one has taken them on." He sighed. "We work in a fickle business."

"If we are no longer rehearsing," Marius DuPre said loudly, his tone one of studied boredom, "May we take a break for lunch? The two of you can discuss music to your hearts' content and it will not waste any more of our time."

"Have a care, Monsieur," Erik snapped before Reyer could respond. "A director worth his salt would not tolerate being spoken to in such a way by the Primo Uomo, let alone a shoddy tenor from the chorus who is best suited to the part of the hairdresser in _Il Muto_."

There was a gasp from somewhere in the assembly. DuPre's eyes fairly bulged from their sockets; Erik fancied that he could see steam emerging from the singer's ears, much like a boiling kettle. "How _dare_ you, sir? I suppose you think that after that attention-seeking display earlier you could sing the part better yourself!"

_I _know _that I could_, thought Erik, but he was denied the chance to answer as Reyer said, "I think that we will indeed take a break. Ladies, gentlemen: we will reconvene in an hour." He fixed Marius with a freezing stare. "Monsieur DuPre, I would like a word in my office, if you please. _Now_."

DuPre went, grumbling, deliberately knocking Erik aside with his shoulder as he followed Reyer from the stage. Erik stumbled, but recovered himself quickly, stepping with two long strides into the tenor's path.

Half a head shorter, Marius glowered up at him. "Get out of my way."

"You are not the leading man," Erik told him softly, the calm tone of his voice belying the anger that was beginning to pulse in his veins. He would have liked nothing more than to wrap his fingers around the fool's neck and squeeze. "And you never will be if you continue to behave in such a deplorable fashion. No one is irreplaceable, and the managers know that."

"Are you... are you threatening me, Monsieur?" DuPre asked, eyes widening in surprise.

"I am merely giving you a friendly warning. Tantrums endear you to no one, least of all me. You will be working under my direction from now on, and I tell you now that I will not tolerate them. Do you understand me, sir?"

Marius was silent for a moment, peering up into Erik's face, and then he spat, "I will not accept direction from a masked freak. Why do you not show your face, Monsieur? Do you have something to hide?"

Erik's fingers twitched convulsively, and he would have grabbed the other man by the throat had not Reyer and Christine both intervened. As her restraining touch came to rest on his arm the musical director bellowed DuPre's name once more from the back of the auditorium and the tenor scuttled off, shooting Erik at look that left him in no doubt of DuPre's feelings towards him. He had seen enough hate-filled stares in his time.

"He's not worth it," Christine said quietly, handing him the hat he had dropped during the altercation.

"Well done, Monsieur," Alphonse Renard declared, approaching from behind and clapping Erik on the back, causing him to stagger slightly. "He has needed taking down a peg or two ever since we began this godforsaken opera. Being the senior tenor in the company since Piangi deserted us he seems to think that the lead role should be his by right. I have been trying, in my own inimitable way, to show him that he is quite mistaken, but alas..."

"Only because you want the lead for yourself," said Augustine Albert, a woman of whom Erik had never been fond. As a singer she was shrill, and she had always aped Carlotta far too much for his liking. Usually sullen, she smiled at him, showing poor teeth which perhaps explained why she hardly ever did so. "I remember you now," she told him, "You stepped in as Don Juan; the managers and the vicomte thought you were the Phantom."

"Monsieur Claudin is my teacher, Augustine," Christine said quickly, and the other soprano gave her a sly glance.

"Yes, I could see that. Such a close working relationship between pupil and teacher was obvious to all." Augustine laughed, a sound that was alarming and quite filthy. She fluttered her eyelashes at Erik. "If you wish to take over the role of the Duke from Marius I for one would welcome it. I have no objection to being groped by an _attractive_ man."

Erik felt his face grow hot again. He reached up to tug at the high collar of his shirt, which suddenly seemed to be choking him. Glancing down at Christine he saw that she was glaring at Augustine, brown eyes flashing.

"Leave him alone, you hussy," Renard said, evidently noticing the look of fury on Christine's face. He took Mademoiselle Albert by the arm, steering her away. "I think that one is taken. There are plenty of others around here for you to sink your talons into."

Augustine's thin lips settled into a pout, but she allowed him to escort her from the stage. Erik did not miss the provocative wiggle of her hips as she walked away, and wondered if he might sit down for a moment. A woman (albeit a rather unattractive one) was actually flirting with him! This was a situation entirely outside his experience; his head was spinning.

"You had a lucky escape there, Erik," Meg announced, and he realised that Little Giry and her mother had joined them. Always a bundle of barely suppressed energy, Meg was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Antoinette looked pleased, the slightest of approving smiles on her stern face.

"Well done," she said. "They have been taking far too much advantage of Reyer's distraction. Now that you are here they will come to heel."

"Oh, definitely," Meg agreed. "I would have liked to see you wallop Marius, though. He won't be able to strut around as though he's cock of the walk any more!"

Though he said nothing, Erik wasn't so sure. He had the distinct feeling that he had just jumped from the relative safety of the frying pan right into the middle of the fire.


	20. I Hear Talk

**Author's** **Note:**

****Today's chapter title comes courtesy of Buck's Fizz.

* * *

**I HEAR TALK**

For some people, eavesdropping was an unpardonable sin. For Erik, however, it was a necessity; how else was he to find out exactly what was happening in his theatre? Walking among the cast and crew was awkward, uncomfortable; he could hear the whispers, see the covert glances and curious looks they gave him and he knew well how the network of backstage gossip functioned. A rumour could start as a throwaway remark one morning and be all over the building by lunchtime, declaimed by supper as the gospel truth. Misinformation and misapprehensions spread like wildfire.

It had been so long since he last interacted with other members of the human race on a regular basis that he found he had all but forgotten how. If Christine was not there at rehearsals, her presence soothing and silently encouraging him, he might well have vanished into one of his secret passageways and never come out again. Desperate to avoid any more contact than strictly necessary, he used his labyrinth between the walls to his advantage, appearing on the stage after everyone else had arrived and leaving before anyone could challenge or speak to him. In particular, he took care to avoid the wandering hands of Augustine Albert; when she had had the temerity to lay one on his arm, leaning over him with the excuse that she could not read the Italian libretto to which he was referring, he almost broke her wrist in his haste to remove it, a reaction which incredibly seemed to amuse her. It would appear that while she disdained the rough advances she was forced to endure from Marius DuPre she had no compunction about inflicting her own upon others. The woman made him shudder.

Thankfully, there was no chorus rehearsal today; Antoinette had taken the stage and was working with Reyer and the orchestra on the ballet which would introduce Act I, becoming part of the fete at the Duke's palace. Erik spent some time watching from the comforting shadows of Box Five, noting that Meg was progressing well. Had he still been the Opera Ghost he would have left a note on the managers' desk, suggesting her advancement. Justine Sorelli was nearing the end of her career as Prima Ballerina, and it was quite obvious that none of the other girls had Meg's grace, or her shining enthusiasm for the dance. She deserved far more than being buried in the corps, but he understood the need to tread carefully; with her mother as the ballet mistress it would take little to attract accusations of nepotism, which was one of the reasons for Madame's reluctance to push Meg forwards.

Eventually, bored with listening to the constant thumping of Antoinette's cane and her admonishments when a girl stepped out of line or failed to concentrate, he took to wandering the theatre, keeping out of sight with an ease borne of many years of practise. He missed Christine. It irked him that she could not be constantly at his side; she was at home now, doing some apparently much needed housework, when he would far rather she were keeping him company, perhaps just talking or reading or singing a duet that had absolutely nothing to do with _Rigoletto_. When he mentioned this to Madame Giry she told him bluntly that he knew what he had to do to remedy the situation, but Erik was not ready yet to make such a step. He had already gone further than he was entirely sure he wished into the world above the ground; everything was moving far too fast and on occasion he felt as though he was being dragged along in the wake of a speeding carriage. He was not used to being out of control; it was a feeling he did not like one bit.

"Come on, Meg, tell us!" A high-pitched voice made him jump, and he realised that he was outside the dancers' dressing room. "You must know Monsieur Claudin better than anyone! Who _is_ he?"

Erik had never been a voyeur. He kept well away from the ballet rats' quarters and made a point of avoiding the dancers' lounge. The mirror in Christine's room had facilitated their lessons and the charade of the Angel of Music; he did not once consider using it to watch her undress and his toes still curled in mortification when he recalled that evening he had caught her in a state of delightful dishabille. It had been quite evident that she did not realise how diaphanous the lamplight made her white robe; the next day he left her a present of a much thicker garment, for no other reason than to protect his own sanity and blood pressure.

Now, however, he paused, listening carefully as Meg gave a frustrated sigh. "What a ridiculous question, Giselle!" she said. "I've already told you ten times: he is Maman's cousin! I don't see what else you can possibly want to know!"

"A strange man appears claiming to be a relative of yours, whom you've never once mentioned, and you don't expect us to ask questions?" That was Dorothée, the tall redhead with a face full of freckles who had taken the lead in _Copp__é__lia_ two Christmases ago when Sorelli came down with influenza. "I thought you didn't have any family?"

"I don't, not really. Maman hadn't seen Cousin Erik since they were children. He came to Paris to try and sell his music; he's a teacher, but he lost a lot of his clients after his accident," Meg declared. "He thought that Maman might have some contacts that could help him."

There was a pause, and then Giselle asked hesitantly, "His... accident?"

"Of course. Don't tell me that you haven't noticed his mask."

Erik held his breath. Typically, Meg had gone straight for the jugular, something he had never found the courage to do himself. There was murmuring from her little audience for a few moments; Dorothée was first to speak up, "Well... yes. We didn't like to mention it."

"What happened, Meg?" asked Hortense, she of the beguiling dark eyes whom Erik had occasionally seen paired with Christine in the ballet.

"I don't know exactly," Meg said, prompting disappointed groans from the others. "Cousin Erik is a very private man. All Maman would say was that he was injured, and that's why he wears the mask."

"Have you seen underneath it?" Giselle enquired breathlessly. "Is it... horrible?"

"Giselle!" squeaked Hortense in protest at the direct question.

"No, I haven't!" It was a lie, but Meg apparently carried it through without so much as a blink. She was a consummate little actress, Erik thought approvingly. The consternation in her voice could have been genuine. "I wouldn't ask to. And neither should any of you," she added quickly. "It's just like someone with one arm or a limp, so don't stare at it or you'll make him uncomfortable."

"It's a bit hard not to," said Dorothée. "Mind you, it can't be as bad as that poor man who used to sit begging near Notre Dame. Do you remember him? He had no hair, and his skin was covered in the most dreadful scars, as if he'd come through a fire and it had just... melted."

Giselle gave a dramatic little shriek. "Oh, yes! That poor, poor, man. I couldn't look at him. Maybe _he_ should have worn a mask."

"It would have taken away his only means of earning money," Meg told her sharply. There was another silence, and Erik could imagine them all looking at her in confusion. "Think about it," she said. "Do you imagine anyone would have employed that poor soul? How else was he to feed himself?"

"Perhaps he could have joined one of those travelling fairs," suggested Hortense, amid exclamations of approval from her compatriots and a gasp of horror from Meg. "You know, those carnivals that promise all kinds of human oddities. Have you read about the latest sensation in England? They are calling him the Elephant Man, and he - "

Erik decided it was high time he took his leave, unable to stand much more of the ballet rats' chatter. He'd always known that they were a crowd of feather-brained ninnies, interested in nothing more than the flowers and compliments lavished upon them by the young men who hung around the stage door and the ballerinas' quarters. Appearances were everything to them, so it came as no surprise that they should be curious about the masked stranger in their midst. He silently thanked Meg for deflecting their interrogation so well; he was still surprised at how fiercely protective she had become of him over the past few months. It was incredible that she should accept him so quickly for who he was; he had dreamed of such a thing for so long and now this girl, with no particular attachment to him and in many ways wise beyond her years, was doing just that. He found that he was becoming increasingly fond of her.

Hortense's unwitting raising of the spectre of the gypsy carnival put him off-kilter, and it wasn't until he was able to smell expensive cigar smoke that he found he had reached the passage beside the managers' office. Flipping aside the cover to the peep hole behind one of the paintings that hung on the wall, he was able to see Marigny and Fontaine in attitudes that were not a surprise after his brief meeting with them a few days before: Fontaine lounged back in his chair, cigar in hand and a glass of cognac at his elbow, while his more industrious colleague sat surrounded by paperwork. It had been a most peculiar situation, and one that felt surreal, when Reyer introduced Erik to them in his new capacity as chorus master. After they departed he felt quite light-headed, and almost asked Christine to pinch him in order to make sure that he had not just dreamed the perfectly civil encounter that just occurred.

"A telegram from Mademoiselle Adler's representative," Marigny said, flourishing a yellow form. "Her contract in Bohemia has been extended for an unspecified period."

Fontaine pulled a face. "Damn. I've heard so much about that woman! I would give my eye teeth to actually see her on the stage."

"Travel to Prague," his partner replied dryly, "Though if the rumours are true, she is giving more private performances than public of late."

"Have you any other suggestions?"

Marigny consulted a list. "Louise Lavoisier is in town. I believe her attachment to La Scala has come to an end now that La Carlotta has returned to make trouble."

"Another soprano, eh?" Fontaine exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "I confess to a hankering after a contralto, myself."

"That would limit the selection of works we are able to perform, and I do not intend this company to be continually repeating the same old repertoire. We can leave that kind of thing to lesser theatres."

Erik silently gave Marigny a round of applause. Finally, a man after his own heart! He had spent years hoping for someone in charge who actually possessed some artistic integrity rather than an all-consuming desire to sell seats.

"We might be able to tempt Mercedes Delgado from Madrid, with the right inducement," Fontaine mused. "An authentic Carmen would draw in the public; it would be a wonderful advertising tool."

Marigny harrumphed. "It would also cost us a fortune; we'd have to pay all her travelling expenses, not to mention her accommodation while she was in Paris. I am reluctant to spend ridiculous amounts of money for so little gain, especially as we have the task of rebuilding the reputation of the Populaire."

Silence reigned for some time as Fontaine thoughtfully sipped his drink and his colleague's pen scratched its way across several sheets of paper. Erik was about to leave them to it when Marigny said suddenly without looking up,

"This Claudin fellow; what do you think of him?"

Fontaine drained the last of his cognac. "I think he's the right man for the job. Knows his opera inside out, and Reyer tells me that he's Mademoiselle Daae's tutor; his success there is obvious."

"Indeed, but what impression did you gain from our encounter the other day?"

"That he is the silent type, I suppose. Disinclined towards conversation, but according to you that is no bad thing; reticence occasionally pays," Fontaine said with a sly glance towards his colleague. "Madame Giry speaks of him in glowing terms, or rather what in her case passes for glowing terms."

Marigny frowned. "Do you not find it a little odd that he has no one but the ballet mistress and a – no disrespect to Mademoiselle Daae – chorus girl to vouch for him? I made some discreet enquiries, you know: apart from the few works he has had published by Langé and St Just there appears to be no record of him anywhere!"

"So he is a provincial; did Madame not say that he came from Normandy? Back room scribblers make little impact on city life."

"That man was better dressed than any provincial music teacher I have ever met," said Marigny, returning to his work.

His colleague burst out laughing. "And precisely how many have you met, my dear Claude?" he enquired. "I have never noticed a queue of out-at-elbows composers standing at your door. I am sure the lovely Josephine would have something to say about it if she knew!"

"You may jest," Marigny told him. "I just think that we should keep an eye on him, that is all."

"That suspicious mind of yours is an irritant at times," Fontaine grumbled. "One would imagine that you saw plots in every corner!"

"I dislike being cheated. A man with no past has something to hide."

Fontaine snorted derisively, but Erik agreed with Marigny. In the manager's position he would have been equally cautious, and he had known from the moment he agreed to emerge from the shadows that his lack of personal history would be a problem. Over the past few weeks he had been carefully laying tracks, inserting information where there had been none before, and quietly resurrecting a life that had been hidden for over three decades. If Marigny enquired again, he would find that Erik Claudin existed once more, thanks to Antoinette. Erik knew that he would never be able to thank her enough for all the help she had given him over the years.

"I wouldn't worry about the chorus master," Fontaine said, jolting him back to the present. "We have more important things to consider."

Marigny rubbed his face wearily and put down his pen. "I suppose you mean your blasted masquerade ball."

"We must do something to announce to society that the Opera Populaire is in business once more. And what better way to introduce our new principal artistes? It makes perfect sense," his partner told him firmly.

"Except, of course, that there is a slight problem in that we have no principal artistes at present."

"All the more reason to find some, don't you think? When can we make arrangements to see Mademoiselle Lavoisier?"

"I already have: Tuesday at three o'clock at her hotel," said Marigny. Fontaine looked pleased. "Now all we have to do is engage a new tenor, possibly two. Marius DuPre made a complaint about Claudin last week."

"DuPre is an ass," Fontaine declared.

Erik couldn't agree more.


	21. Hot Gossip

**Author's Note:  
**

Goodness, a hundred reviews! Thank you all so much; I'm glad you're enjoying the ride so far.

This week's chapter title is a tribute to the dance troupe with which Sarah Brightman found fame. :)

* * *

**HOT GOSSIP**

April was turning into May, and the weather becoming milder.

Grateful for a break in the final run of rehearsals before the dress, Meg stepped out of the stage door and breathed in a lungful of air, its sensation almost fresh after the stuffiness of the theatre. She tried to ignore the usual city smells that assailed her nostrils, the odours of manure and sewage and coal which were impossible to escape no matter where you were; an equally unpleasant scent, that of tobacco smoke, she did not dismiss so lightly, knowing that some of the ballerinas ignored Madame Giry's strict warnings upon the subject and obtained cigarettes from their many and varied amours. Glancing down the street she could see Dorothée and Hortense giggling with a couple of the younger stagehands. Meg had no idea how they imagined they could disguise their transgressions; her mother would smell smoke and the cheap wine which the men were attempting to persuade them to drink on their breath the moment they returned to the stage. She shook her head, closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling of the spring sun on her face.

With one or two exceptions, everyone had buckled down and worked hard over the previous few weeks. After the disasters of the last year they were all anxious to succeed, and above all to hold onto their jobs. The initial burst of curiosity over Erik's arrival seemed to have died down and the majority of the cast had accepted him once they discovered that he knew exactly what he was talking about and did not expect anything of them that was not achievable. He was stern, and at times a hard taskmaster, but he wanted the production to be a triumph and refused to carry anyone who was not willing to give their all. There were still rumours circulating, particularly connected to his relationship with Christine; Meg tried to scotch these as best she could though she was sure some of the other girls believed that it was a case of 'the lady doth protest too much'. Erik was scrupulous in his dealings with Christine on stage, and took care not to praise her above anyone else though Meg knew that he did so in private. No matter who else walked into the room, he would only ever have eyes for his Angel of Music.

It was strange, watching him dealing with other people. He was stiff, formal and reluctant to let his guard down, but there were occasions when his passion shone through the unbending exterior. A musical phrase, or a particularly sweet passage of song would transfix him and he would speak upon the subject with such enthusiasm that his eyes lit up and the visible side of his face transformed, the smile that touched his lips making him appear much more human. Unfortunately, once he realised this he would retreat back into his shell, his barriers rising once more, and once again he would become the strict teacher he pretended to be. Because of this many members of the company found him difficult and stand-offish but there were a handful who began to see the man hiding behind the facade and Meg was glad of it.

The sound of voices disturbed her reverie. Tucked away as she was beside the steps which led up to the Rue Scribe entrance to the theatre she was almost invisible to anyone approaching and it was quite obvious that the two men walking in her direction had no idea that she was there. One was Marius DuPre, and she realised with a jolt of surprise that she recognised his companion. The loud checked suit and rather battered felt hat could only belong to one person: Francois Béringer.

Meg scooted round the stairs, taking care to remain out of sight. They were talking in low voices, Béringer scribbling in a notebook while DuPre enjoyed a cigar; the fact that he was a closet smoker was no shock, for it explained the poor quality of his voice of late. Meg wondered whether the cigars had been a gift from the journalist, as she could not recall ever having seen Marius indulging in one before now. She strained her ears, trying to hear what they were saying.

"Does it sound like the same man?" DuPre asked.

Béringer nodded. "From your description, I'd say it's definitely him. You say he wears a mask?"

"Over the right side of his face. There's something wrong with his mouth, too." Marius waved a hand towards his own features. "Looks like it's twisted, though I only got a glimpse. I take it you didn't see any of this?"

"Our... altercation was an awkward one, and there were too many shadows. Can you tell me anything about his dealings with Daae?"

DuPre snorted. "Only that he seems to worship the ground she walks on and she feels the same way about him. Unfortunately for you, they're so proper around one another that it's impossible to tell whether anything else is going on."

Béringer flicked back through his notes, frowning. "I remember you telling me that you'd seen this fellow before, in the theatre."

"I didn't see him myself. Augustine Albert reckons he was the one who replaced Piangi as Don Juan back in January, but I was in my dressing room at the time so I can't comment. When I got back to the stage the place was in chaos, everyone was screaming about the Phantom and Christine Daae had disappeared again."

"Vanishing is something she seems to make a habit of," the journalist remarked. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, "It seems that me that no one had ever encountered this fellow Claudin before he came to the Populaire's rescue."

A dark look crossed Marius's ruddy face, and he threw the end of his cigar into the gutter with rather more force than was necessary. "We did not _need_ rescuing, Monsieur. Rehearsals were going perfectly well before that... upstart arrived."

"If you say so," Béringer agreed smoothly. "It seems strange to me that such a person should just appear apparently from nowhere, professing so close a connection to Christine Daae. The Phantom was reputedly obsessed with her. Could this Claudin be the Phantom, do you think?"

DuPre looked at the man for a long moment. Meg held her breath. After a pause, during which Béringer began to look uncomfortable, Marius let loose a loud guffaw, the sound of which was enough to make the ballet rats and their beaux on the corner glance round. "The Phantom?" Marius exclaimed, lowering his voice only after the journalist made frantic shushing motions with his hand. "Claudin? Never! The man is too much of a cold fish; I can't imagine him doing anything so dramatic. Mind you, if he _was_ the Phantom, I'd like to shake his hand for dropping a set piece from _Le Roi de Lahore_ on that dreadful Giudicelli woman's head. Never did anyone deserve it more!"

Béringer closed his notebook with a snap and stuffed it into his pocket. "I take it that you'll keep me informed? The managers must be close to revealing the identities of the new leading players."

"By that remark I assume you mean that you're fishing for an invitation to the Bal Masque," said Marius, pulling out a hip flask and taking a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hang around the stage door after the performance. I'll see what I can do."

There was a nasty smile on the journalist's face. "Oh, I'll be there. After what happened at the last Opera ball, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

Returning to the theatre, head down as she contemplated all she had just heard, Meg nearly ran into Christine, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, a crumpled newspaper in her hands.

"He's done it again," she told Meg when they had both recovered and apologised. "I've been looking all over for Erik, so that I can explain. Goodness knows what he thinks..!"

"Thinks of what? Who has done it again?" Meg asked, perplexed. Christine showed her the copy of _Le Figaro_, pointing to the narrow column in the Arts section that was evidently bothering her. As she read, it became quite obvious who was to blame for the soprano's current consternation. "Of course. Béringer."

"He must have seen me with Raoul! Meg, it was perfectly innocent; we bumped into each other in the street. I had no idea that he was back in Paris! Whatever must Erik think?"

_Have reports of the end of the fairytale romance between the beautiful Christine Daae and her aristocratic suitor been somewhat premature? The two former lovebirds were recently spotted cooing together as though their separation had never occurred. Can La Daae's mysterious new admirer compete with a chateau in the Loire and a hundred thousand a year? Only time will tell..._

"The rat," said Meg, crushing the newspaper into a ball. "Oh, that man is rotten to the core!"

Christine blinked, shocked. "Meg! You can't possibly mean that Erik might - "

"Not Erik – Béringer! I've just seen him outside with Marius. Our so-called colleague has been feeding that gutter-snipe information! If anything, Erik needs to be warned that they're on his trail." Meg glanced around the dim corridor. "Where is he?"

"I don't know; he vanished after announcing a break and I haven't seen him since. I daren't go downstairs to look for him; someone might see," Christine said. "What has Marius told that despicable man?"

Meg filled her in as they all but ran through the narrow hallways. The backstage areas of the Opera House were like a rabbit warren; Erik knew every hiding place in the building, and if he did not want to be found he would remain invisible. He had developed a habit of disappearing before anyone could approach, a strategy which Meg suspected was born more from a desire to avoid Augustine Albert than anything else. It kept everyone on their toes and perplexed both Monsieur Reyer and the stage manager, but to Meg it was becoming infuriating.

"How could he do that?" Christine asked, shaking her head in astonishment. Meg sighed inwardly; her friend could be so naive sometimes.

"He does it because Erik humiliated him in front of everyone," she said. "Marius got above himself and Erik slapped him down, so consequently he now hates Erik for thwarting him. Béringer is obviously exploiting that hatred for his own ends. It's quite simple really."

"It's not simple to me," said Christine sadly. "Why do people have to be so beastly to one another?"

"Human nature my dear," a familiar voice replied, before Meg could open her mouth. A shadow detached itself from the wall, resolving into the tall, lean figure of the former Opera Ghost himself. He frowned, the undamaged side of his face in harmony with his mask. "What has happened?"

Meg and Christine both began to speak at once, each becoming louder and shriller in their attempts to outdo one another. Erik covered his ears, his expression pained.

"One at a time, please!" he begged. Leading the way into a side room which Meg recognised as Monsieur Pevitt's old office, he shut the door behind them and perched on the edge of the desk, folding his arms. "Now: explain, and do it _quietly_."

They did, Christine thankfully letting Meg do most of the talking. By the time she had finished, the look on Erik's face was thunderous and Christine was nervously twirling a curl of hair around her finger. Straightening, Erik stalked up and down the room for some moments before whirling around and slamming a hand into the wall, making the pictures shake and both the girls jump.

"I should have killed that infernal reporter when I had the chance." He stood with his back to them, fists clenched, his whole posture radiating fury. Christine and Meg exchanged a worried glance. Gradually, however, some of the anger drained away and Erik's shoulders relaxed a little. "When did you see the vicomte?" he asked without turning.

"The day we had dinner," Christine told him. "Erik, it was completely innocent. We just met in the street, nothing happened!"

He held out a hand to her, which she took, relief flooding her features, and allowed him to draw her close. "How could it have done? You came back to me, after all." Christine flung her arms around his neck and he dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.

"There is a silver lining," said Meg, feeling rather like a gooseberry. Both of her companions stared at her. "Marius is such an idiot that he can throw Béringer off the scent of the Phantom if we feed him the right information."

Christine looked hopelessly confused. "How do we do that?"

Erik smiled. "Marguerite Giry, you have the mind of a criminal genius."

"Thank you." Now it was Meg's turn to be puzzled. "I think."

"What are you going to do, Erik?" Christine asked as his smile became a wolfish grin.

"Oh, nothing really," he said. "I was just thinking that it might be instructive for Monsieur DuPre to discover that OG hasn't entirely left the building..."


	22. A Message, Monsieur

**A MESSAGE, MONSIEUR, FROM THE OPERA GHOST**

Madame Giry was just clearing her desk when she heard the lone voice drifting down the hallway.

No one else ever stayed this late. Well, no one but herself and Reyer, finishing paperwork and looking over their plans for the future, adding to the copious files they both kept on the various artists under their direction. She had sent Meg home over an hour ago, after the penultimate fraught and chaotic dress rehearsal; anyone watching who had never experienced the preparations for a theatrical performance would have been shocked by the apparent lack of cohesion, the nerves and the increasingly frayed tempers. Most of the cast had thankfully knuckled down and were returning to their usual levels of commitment, though one or two were still causing some problems. Clashes of personality, or, more accurately, of ego, were commonplace in the opera world, much to Antoinette's annoyance. She was well aware that to get on in their profession, as a singer or dancer, one should leave their pretensions at the door and accept guidance from those with more experience; unfortunately, too many of the younger members of the cast imagined that they knew better than the more seasoned performers around them.

Marius DuPre was one of the biggest offenders in that department. He had always grumbled about having to play second fiddle (although most of the time it was third, or even fourth depending on the piece in question) to Ubaldo Piangi completely ignoring the fact that the Signor had worked for twenty years in the opera houses of Italy before rising to the position he had until recently held with the company. Possessed of a breathtaking arrogance which was only truly making itself known now that he had gained his first leading role, DuPre clearly believed that his talent was such that he needed to listen to neither criticism or direction. Madame Giry, watching Erik attempt to drill some advice into him, could see the former Phantom becoming angrier and angrier as the tenor flagrantly ignored his instructions. At the end of the rehearsal, when Marius was still playing the Duke with the hopelessly overblown attitude he had adopted from the start, Erik threatened to allocate the role instead to Gianni, the able young member of the ensemble who was understudy for the part. Gianni had looked astonished, while Marius's response was to throw his libretto to the floor before stamping on it and stalking from the stage.

Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief at his departure, and Antoinette knew that she was not alone in hoping that he would refuse to perform on opening night. Erik railed against DuPre for some time, calling him every name under the sun and detailing precisely what he would like to do to him; there was no greater sin in Erik's book than deliberately disrupting an opera. It was therefore a surprise to hear Marius's voice coming from the stage. Madame hurried down the corridor and slipped into the wings; DuPre stood on the boards amongst the standing pieces of set which had been left in place for the first scene, a grand ballroom with a staircase which could be cleverly folded against the back wall to make room for a quick change of flats. There was no spotlight, of course, but the ghost light had been left burning as usual and it softly illuminated Marius as he walked back and forth, gesturing grandly. The words of _La Donna E Mobile_ filled the air; Antoinette had heard them so many times over the last few weeks that she was sure she could sing the aria herself.

Abruptly, Marius stopped in the middle of a line. Barking a harsh laugh, he kicked at something on the stage. Had he applied himself, he could have been a very good singer, Madame mused. Not outstanding, not brilliant, but good. As it was, he lacked projection in the high notes, wobbling as he tried to hold them, and his pitch was beginning to display the disregard he showed it by smoking. If he abused his instrument for many more weeks, any ability he possessed would be gone forever, destroyed by his own carelessness.

"...bastard..." he muttered, reaching for a bottle that stood on the conductor's podium and taking a deep draught. "What does he know, eh? Freak comes from nowhere and tries to tell me how to do my job! How many operas has he sung? None! No one would let him on the stage... belongs in a bloody circus!"

Antoinette was already moving forwards, propelled by her instinct to defend Erik, but before she could emerge from the wings a sandbag quite suddenly plummeted from the flies, coming to a halt half a dozen feet above the stage and barely six inches from the left hand side of Marius DuPre's head. The tenor goggled at it before belatedly leaping backwards, his reactions dulled by the amount of alcohol he had obviously drunk; as he did, another fell, this time on his right, missing him by an even narrower margin. He peered up into the darkness above him, as though he might spot the perpetrator; it was futile, for Madame knew that no one would see the owner of the hand that had loosened the weights unless he wished it.

"I would hold your tongue if I were you," a voice announced, seemingly coming from the centre of the stalls. Marius stepped towards the edge of the stage, trying to see into the all but invisible auditorium.

"Who's there?" he shouted.

"Someone who merely wishes to offer you some advice, Monsieur," the voice replied, this time sounding as though it was right behind him. Spinning around, DuPre gaped to find himself quite alone. "Your behaviour... concerns me. It should be quite clear by now that I will brook no arrogance within my theatre. Remember what happened to La Carlotta when she began to think too highly of herself..."

"Mon Dieu..." Marius breathed. "The Phantom! But they all said you had gone..!"

There was a sinister chuckle which ran right the way round the orchestra pit. Antoinette shook her head; it appeared that Erik was enjoying himself, wherever he was. "I am part of the Opera, Monsieur; I will never leave it."

"What... what do you want from me?" The tenor clutched his bottle to his chest protectively.

"Just a few words of warning: no one is irreplaceable. You will either take the direction you have been given, apply yourself to your role and make _Rigoletto_ a triumph, or..."

Marius audibly gulped. "Or..?"

"Well, I am sure you would not like to perform _another_ opera in a house with a curse upon it..." Erik purred.

A high-pitched squeak was the only sound it seemed the hapless singer could produce at that moment.

"I bid you good night, Monsieur; sleep well, and remember that I am always watching," Erik said in that almost sing-song tone he always reserved for the appearances of the Phantom, and down came a third sandbag, right in front of DuPre's face.

There was a long pause. Then Marius's eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed in a heap in the middle of the stage, not far from his opening mark for Act I. Tutting, Madame Giry hurried towards him, bending down and feeling for a pulse just in case the poor fool had suffered a heart attack. As she did, she heard a faint rustling of fabric and a moment later Erik landed lightly on the boards beside her, hat tilted over his face and the cloak that settled around his ankles giving him the appearance of a great black bat.

"Is he still alive?" he enquired casually.

Antoinette sat back on her heels. "Yes, no thanks to you. It's strange... I was under the distinct impression that the Phantom had been retired."

"He has. But he makes occasional command performances when circumstances require."

"Much as I dislike the man, surely there was no need to frighten him like that," she said, and Erik's visible eyebrow arched.

"There was every need, when he is not only a constant thorn in my side but is also feeding information to that detestable journalist," he replied coldly. "You have probably not found time to read this morning's _Figaro_; it is full of rumours concerning myself and Christine." He told her exactly what had been seen and heard by Meg, and by the end of the tale Madame's lips were pressed into a thin line.

"You have made an enemy there, Erik. It is foolish to play these tricks with him; you are only putting yourself at risk of exposure!"

"There is no need for you to worry. I have no intention of being caught," he said, and with a flick of his cloak he was gone, disappearing into the shadows.

Antoinette looked down at the prostrate tenor lying at her feet. "And precisely what am I to do with him?" she demanded. It was just typical of him to leave her to clear up the mess.

Erik's voice hung in the air behind him, and even though she could not see his face she knew that he was smirking. "There is a bucket in the wings collecting rainwater from that leak in the roof. Judicious application of the contents should do the trick."


	23. I Heard A Rumour

**Author's Note:  
**

****This week's chapter title comes courtesy of Bananarama.

* * *

**I HEARD A RUMOUR**

"Meg, may I speak to you?"

Surprised, Meg glanced up to see Marius DuPre, a faintly ridiculous figure in sixteenth century doublet and hose, standing at her shoulder. He did not have the height to carry off such antiquated fashions; his feathered cap sat at a rather sad angle on his sandy hair and the sword clanking at his side hung rather forlornly, as though it knew that he would have no idea how to use it. The silver hip flask which had already made several appearances that morning was in his hand, and he took another swig from it.

"This is an honour," Meg said archly. "I didn't think you lowered yourself to associate with mere ballerinas any more."

Marius looked uncomfortable. "This is a little awkward..." He peered over his shoulder at the group gathered around the piano; Erik was giving Alphonse and Frederick some final instruction and some of the chorus had joined them to listen. "Could we talk in private?"

"This had better not be an excuse to try and snatch a grope, Marius..." she warned him, folding her arms, but he shook his head, expression pained. She sighed. "Oh, all right. What's the matter?"

He didn't speak until they were out in the passageway, beyond the wings and away from anyone who might be listening. Marius looked left and right, and then, curiously, above as well, as though someone might be clinging onto the ceiling. "You know more about the Phantom than anyone else," he said at last.

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Meg replied cautiously.

The tenor glared at her. "Don't be cagey, Meg; you were always the first one to shout whenever he was around, and your mother delivered his letters!"

"I suggest you ask her, then."

From his expression it was obvious that he baulked at confronting Madame Giry; even when Erik as OG was in full cry she refused to speak about him and now anyone asking was likely to get very short shrift indeed. "Just answer me one question: do you think the Phantom is still here, in the Opera?"

Meg stared at him for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. "You're not serious, surely?"

"It's not funny, Little Giry!" Marius exclaimed, grabbing her by the shoulders. Instinctively she stamped on his foot; she couldn't do much damage in pointe shoes but the action was enough to make him let her go. "Do you or do you not think he may still be lurking around?"

"I think you've had a little too much of whatever is in that flask," Meg told him, smoothing down the sleeves of her costume where he had wrinkled the satin. "Everyone knows that the Phantom left before _Don Juan Triumphant_; he wasn't stupid enough to let the vicomte catch him. What's brought this on?"

Marius looked wary. "There haven't been any more notes, then? No communication with the managers? You must know; you're always listening."

Meg shrugged. "If there has, no one has mentioned it. We've had no disasters since rehearsals began; no one has been kidnapped and you're the only person to walk out."

"That has nothing to do with it," he snapped, but he flushed and she didn't think it was because of the alcohol he'd consumed. It was quite obvious that Erik had embarked upon his plan to teach Marius a lesson; she wondered what on earth he had been up to. Feigning concern, she asked,

"What's happened, Marius? Have you..." she paused deliberately, glancing back towards the wings "... have you seen... something?"

His face pale now as though the flush had drained away like water down a plug hole, the tenor leaned towards her and whispered, "Not seen. _Heard_."

"Heard what? Ghostly singing? A piano playing by itself?"

He shook his head. "Nothing like that. He spoke to me. I saw no one, but I heard a voice."

Meg blinked. She hadn't expected that. "You must be favoured," she said. "He never spoke to my mother. What makes you so sure it was the Phantom?"

Frustrated, Marius clenched his fists. He paced up and down the corridor for a moment before he replied, "He told me so; warned me that I could suffer the same fate as Carlotta if I didn't toe the line and accept Claudin's direction."

"He threatened to drop a chandelier on your head?"

"Do you have to be so flippant?" he demanded angrily. "I am in fear of my life!"

"I'm sorry." Meg tried to sober up. "Have you told anyone else about this? Alphonse, or - "

"Don't be ridiculous. I would be a laughing stock. They all believe the Phantom was a hoax, that it was some madman playing tricks."

An idea occurred to her, a way to lead him completely off the scent of the Opera Ghost. "Has it occurred to you that maybe this 'voice' you heard was one of them playing a prank on you? You have been a little..." How could she put it gently? "...a little difficult lately. Maybe they thought to have some fun at your expense."

Marius's bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would they want to do that?" he asked, evidently completely unaware of what a pain in the backside he had been since rehearsals began.

"Jealousy?" Meg suggested. Her reply was intended to be facetious, but he swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

"Yes. Yes, you could be right," he muttered, rubbing his chin. "Alphonse wanted my part for himself, after all. It would be just like him to try something so pathetically childish." After a moment's thought he whirled around, stalking back towards the stage.

Meg ran after him. "What are you going to do?"

"Confront him, of course! I'll not be taken for a fool!"

"Do you think that's a good idea? In front of everyone?" She mentally cursed herself; a fight between his two leading actors would not go down well with Erik, and she did not want to bear the brunt of his wrath when he discovered whose fault it was.

Marius did not even break his stride. "Where better? I want them all to know what an utter jackass the man is!"

This could only end badly, Meg reflected as she followed him, mouthing a helpless "_I'm sorry_" to Erik and Christine as she passed them. The cast were scattered about the set but stopped whatever they were doing as Marius stomped past; he pushed through a gaggle of ballerinas, ignoring their outraged cries as he crushed tutus and nearly trod on feet, his focus upon one person and one person only. Alphonse Renard was standing with his back to the rest of the company; when Marius laid a hand on his shoulder he turned, but was not ready for the punch which came apparently out of nowhere, connecting with his nose. There was a scream from Giselle as the baritone hit the boards, blood spurting onto his shirt. For a few moments there was only confusion as Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry came running, raised voices demanding to know what was happening, then Alphonse struggled back to his feet and gave Marius a great shove that sent the smaller man stumbling.

"What the hell was that for?" Alphonse yelled, looming over his fallen colleague. Someone gave him a handkerchief, which he used to dab at his face. "Have you gone completely insane?"

"I know it was you! I know what you're trying to do!" Marius shouted back. "It won't work, I tell you; it won't work!"

The baritone just stared at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about, you great idiot!"

"The voices! I know you're behind them, trying to get me to change my performance just so you can grab all the glory for yourself!"

"Voices? What voices?" Alphonse turned away in disgust. "You really _are_ mad."

Meg could see her mother giving Erik a pointed look; the Phantom took no notice, concentrating his attention on the quarrelling singers, a frown creasing his forehead. Wiping at his nose, Alphonse began to walk away from the scene, but an enraged Marius surged upright and dived after him, catching him around the middle and dragging them both back to the floor. Fists flew as several members of the crew tried in vain to separate them; more than one fell back clutching his own nose, caught by a punch not intended for them. Someone suggested calling the managers, another the police; Meg watched helplessly, Christine at her side, as the two men pummelled each other.

"We have to make them stop!" the soprano cried, wringing her hands.

"Precisely what do you suggest?" Meg asked. "If Pierre can't pull them apart, what can we do?"

Erik opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a loud and ominous creak. Everyone looked upwards, into the flies and the set pieces and backgrounds that were stored above the stage. Almost on cue, another noise came from the shadows there, a groaning of wood and rope upon which there was too much pressure. It seemed that all his years of traversing the upper realm of catwalks and pulleys allowed the Phantom to divine what was about to happen before anyone else, even those members of the crew whose job it was to secure such potentially dangerous items; there was a shout from the flies, but Erik was already moving, running across the stage towards Alphonse and Marius, scattering terrified ballet rats in his wake.

"Out of the way! Now!" he bellowed, his voice seeming to echo around the auditorium. Grabbing Marius by the scruff of the neck he dragged him with almost superhuman strength off of Alphonse, flinging him aside. Another creak, this one even louder, sounded from above them. "Move! Quickly!"

"How dare you!" Marius exclaimed, pushing past Erik and hurling himself back towards his foe, who was climbing unsteadily to his feet. "This has nothing to do with you, you damned interfering bastard!"

"Look out below!" Christophe yelled from the catwalk. "She's coming down!"

Alphonse looked up and blanched as the loudest groan of all heralded the sudden and rapid descent of one of the backgrounds, an Italian piazza from the last production of _Romeo and Juliet_, towards the stage. The baritone threw himself clear, not caring if he landed on his broken nose, but Marius seemed oblivious to the danger, his ire turned now towards Erik. Christine started forwards, white with fear for the men who stood directly in the path of the falling scenery, but Meg caught her arm, holding her back.

"Get out of the way, you fool!" Erik shouted, trying to push Marius backwards; the tenor was hanging onto his collar, refusing to be moved. He fought the Phantom as, with mere seconds to spare, Erik hurled them both across the stage as the backcloth crashed into the boards, sending splinters flying into the air.

For a long time no one spoke; the entire company barely even seemed to breathe. Marius gingerly sat up, staring in horror and astonishment at the twisted pile of wood and canvas which lay where he had been standing moments before. Stage right, almost in the wings he had thrown himself so far, Alphonse was getting shakily to his feet; Augustine and Marie Durant, the mezzo, hurried over to him and began fussing, much to his evident irritation. The spell broken, there was soon a cacophony of noise as everyone began talking at once; Monsieur Reyer shouted up to the fly men, demanding to know what had gone wrong and threatening to report them for negligence, while Meg's mother herded her corps together, checking that they were all unharmed. Christine ran to where Erik, who had recovered quicker than anyone else, stood smoothing down his hair and brushing dust from his coat; he looked annoyed to find a rent in the sleeve where it had evidently caught on a loose nail.

"What on earth happened?" Meg wondered as Christine worriedly checked that the Phantom was unscathed. He submitted to her attentions but removed her concerned hands as soon as he could; assuring her that he was all right.

"A rope must have come loose," he said, glancing up into the fly loft. "Either come loose or snapped."

"Are you certain of that, Monsieur?" asked Madame Giry, coming silently up behind them.

Erik's eyebrow arched in annoyance. "You show remarkably little faith in me, Madame."

"I sometimes have good reason," she retorted.

Someone coughed, and they all turned to see a slightly unsteady and rather dusty Alphonse standing there. His nose had apparently stopped bleeding but the rusty stains that had dried around it gave him a rather macabre aspect. He held out a hand to Erik.

"I just wanted to say thank you, Monsieur. That could have been very nasty; I'm not desperate to shuffle off this mortal coil quite yet!" he said with a grin, and then winced as it pulled on his battered face.

Erik looked at the hand as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. When he did accept it, he withdrew his own as quickly as possible without giving offence. "You are welcome, Monsieur Renard," he replied awkwardly, unable to look the man in the eye.

"We must get you to a doctor," Madame Giry put in when she realised that Erik wasn't going to raise the subject. "Your nose - "

"It's all right, Madame, I don't think it's broken," the baritone told her cheerfully. "I'll see a quack later and send the bill to Marius."

"Will you be able to sing?" Erik asked anxiously, showing precisely where his concern lay. Meg's mother rolled her eyes.

"We'll see in the morning. If nothing else, it'll add some authenticity to my character!" Alphonse declared. He glanced around. "I could do with a drink, though."

"I think we all could after that," Meg agreed.

"A break is in order, I believe," said Erik, clapping his hands together, the sound like a gunshot in the now quiet theatre. "Where is Fortier? We must get this mess cleared up."

As he strode off in search of the fly chief, Alphonse approached Marius, who still stood, rather dazed, beside the wreckage. The baritone laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, speaking to him quietly; at the sound of his voice Marius appeared to come back to himself, shrugging off his colleague's touch and snapping some words that Meg couldn't quite make out. Alphonse's expression darkened but he remained calm; he gestured towards the wings, where the other men in the chorus were waiting, but Marius shook his head. With a sigh, Alphonse left him to join the others, doubtless intending to head for a bar and a medicinal brandy.

The stage gradually emptied but for the wardrobe assistants gathering up items of discarded clothing and the stage hands with brooms and barrows to remove the shattered backdrop. Madame Giry began to usher Meg and Christine away, too, but Marius remained and as Meg passed him she couldn't help but stop. He was as white as a sheet and shaking, unable to take his eyes away for long from the dented boards. Had Erik not reacted when he did, Marius's skull could easily have been crushed beneath the weight of the heavy wooden frame; he had been standing at exactly the right angle for the corner to strike him on the back of the head.

"Marius?" Meg asked softly. "Are you all right?"

"I could have died, Meg," he whispered, turning wide eyes to her. "Was it the Phantom, do you think?"

Trying not to look at Erik, who was standing by the piano, apparently engrossed in some sheet music, she shook her head. "No. The Phantom has gone. It was nothing more than an accident."

"Alphonse could have loosened that rope. He - "

"Marius, Alphonse is your _friend_," Meg said, deciding that it was time to put a stop to all the nonsense once and for all. "At least he was before all this stupid peacocking over the lead role started. He would never want to do you harm! How could you even think such a thing?"

He rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration. She watched him, concerned, until at last he looked at her once more with a defeated expression. "Am I going mad, Meg?"

"No. No, you've just been consumed by the green-eyed monster," she told him, impulsively taking his hand and squeezing it. Under normal circumstances Marius would have read that as a signal to try a bit of a fumble, but this time to her relief he did nothing but give her a rather watery smile. "You're an idiot, and you've offended a lot of people, but in time we'll all forgive you. That's what friends do."

The tenor glanced towards the orchestra pit, where Erik's tall figure could clearly be seen. "What about _him_? If he hadn't - "

"I think," said Meg, "that the best way you can apologise is to actually_ listen_ to him. You may not like him, but he does know what he's talking about."

Marius sighed, and nodded. "I suppose I'd better get used to the taste of humble pie. Thank you, Meg." He leaned in and she instinctively backed away, but to her surprise instead of aiming for her lips he pecked her on the cheek. "I think you know what you're talking about, too."

Trying not to blush, she watched as he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and approached the piano. Erik had been idly playing one of the airs from Act Three, but he broke off as Marius cleared his throat, turning warily to face him.

"Monsieur Claudin," the tenor began, "I wonder if I might have a word...?"

"Is that what I think it is?" Christine asked, suddenly there at Meg's shoulder.

"Marius instigating a truce? I think it might be," Meg replied. The two men had moved to the edge of the stage where they wouldn't be overheard, but it was obvious even from a distance that they were having their first civilised conversation. Marius looked extremely embarrassed but Erik was listening calmly, his stern expression softening just a little. "It's about time. And all it took was for him to nearly be killed by a market square from fair Verona."

"Do you really believe Erik had nothing to do with that falling scenery?"

Meg shrugged. "I know Maman thinks it was him, but how is that possible? He was down here with us the whole time! He could never have loosened that rope so that the backdrop would fall at precisely the right moment - could he?" Erik must have felt their eyes upon him as he looked their way; for a moment she thought she saw a little smile of victory turning up the corner of his mouth, but when she blinked it was gone and his attention was on Marius once more. "I suppose with the Opera Ghost, one never knows..."


	24. Play The Music, Light The Lights

**Author's Note:  
**

Yes, I freely admit that the title comes from the theme tune to _The Muppet Show_. :)

* * *

**PLAY THE MUSIC, LIGHT THE LIGHTS**

Erik glanced at the clock. "You should be making your way upstairs; your dresser will be waiting for you."

"Is it that time already?" Christine had not realised the hour had become so late; spending time in the underground house before a performance always calmed her. They had already gently warmed up her voice, Erik taking the opportunity to offer some personal instruction he had omitted from the rehearsal, preferring to fine-tune her performance away from the rest of the cast lest he be accused of favouritism. He cooked dinner, something light so as not to make her feel sluggish, and they had passed an enjoyable afternoon in each other's company, Christine amused by his small talk, something which he had been trying out on her recently and at which he was becoming increasingly adept. Teasingly, she threatened to take him with her to a society soiree, an invitation to which arrived in the post that morning, sent by an admirer. Erik's sour expression told her more eloquently than any words exactly how he viewed the suggestion.

He held out a hand to her. "I will escort you as far as the singers' corridor."

"We're not going to use the mirror?" she asked, disappointed. There was still a frisson of excitement to be felt as they passed through that magic portal from his domain into the world above.

"I don't think it would be a good idea to enlighten Madame Michon as to its existence, do you?" Erik quirked an eyebrow. "Besides, there are enough rumours flying around about the two of us without the added fuel of me being found in your dressing room _before_ the performance."

"You're right, of course." With a sigh Christine reached for her wrap, settling it around her shoulders. "Will there be time for us to meet before I step on stage? You know that your presence always helps my nerves."

He pulled a rueful face. "I fear that you will have to forgo it upon this occasion."

"But why? Monsieur Reyer always comes round to wish everyone good luck!"

"Monsieur Reyer does not have to climb the stairs from the fifth cellar," Erik said defensively. "I cannot hang around backstage for long; someone might see me."

Christine couldn't help laughing at the suggestion. "Erik, you are the chorus master; you are _meant_ to be there! Everyone in the cast will see you during the entire show."

"_Temporary_ chorus master," he corrected. "I agreed to assist; I have no contract and the managers have no hold over me that I can tell. Never have I said that I will be there on the opening night."

"But... but, _Erik_..!" Her mouth fell open and she stared at him in shock. "Do you mean to tell me that you will miss the performance? You have _never_ missed one of my opening nights, not even when I was still in the corps de ballet! I don't... I _can't_... how can you do this to me after all we've - "

"Christine, _Christine_." Erik's voice was soothing, his tone like honey. Christine bit her lip, determined not to be taken in by it. "I did not say that I would not be there, only that I would not be seen. Box Five has been sold - " An annoyed expression briefly crossed his face " – but there are many other vantage points from which I can watch in privacy. I have not forsaken you; how could you think that I would? Your Angel of Music will always be with you."

"I need _you_, not the Angel," she told him, and he blinked in surprise. "The whole cast needs you. In person. No one else has been able to mould us into a company again like you; how do you expect us to bring down the house if you are not there?"

He pulled away from her, letting her hand fall to her side. "Don't be ridiculous. You will all be perfectly fine without me."

"I'm not being ridiculous! What if someone dries, loses their voice, has an accident?"

"I would refer you to the prompter for the first and the understudies and a doctor for the latter," he said dryly. "You will hardly need me to deal with such eventualities."

"_Erik_." Christine stamped her foot, which only served to raise a slight smile, much to her irritation. "Like it or not, you are a part of the Populaire now, a _tangible_ part. Will you abandon us now that all our hard work is about to pay off? If we receive any applause tonight, it will be down to you as much as any of us; you should be there to appreciate it, not hiding in the shadows. They are the home of the Phantom, not Erik Claudin. If _Rigoletto_ is a success it will be _your_ achievement. Think of the reviews! It will put Monsieur Béringer in his place once and for all!"

There was a long silence, during which the ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed painfully loud. Eventually Erik turned towards the piano, taking up a bound libretto and settling himself on the stool. He opened the lid and trailed his long fingers up and down the keys before saying quietly, "I think it might be best if you made your way up to the surface alone. Take the passage on the left; it leads to the prop room. You will invite less attention that way."

Christine felt her hands trembling; she folded them tightly in front of her, watching his back as he began to almost absently play the introduction to Gilda's aria _Caro Nome_. The notes soared into the air, but for once she felt no compulsion to sing. Tears spiked in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "The last few weeks, despite some hiccups and irritations, have been so rewarding... I have enjoyed having you beside me on that stage every day more than anything. Why do you have to spoil it now?"

"I don't belong up there." His words were so soft that at first she misheard him.

"Erik - "

"The rest of the cast... no matter what you say they don't accept me, Christine, they tolerate me." He raised a hand before she could open her mouth, stalling any protest. "I have seen the way they look at me, heard them whispering behind their hands. Meg has been doing her best, but there is suspicion in the air and though I do not blame them for it I have no desire to be its object. I _must_ keep my distance if the truth is to be concealed."

The silence returned, this time punctuated by the now muted tinkling of the piano keys. Sighing once again, Christine crossed the rug to stand behind him; laying her hands on his shoulders she brushed her lips against the top of his head.

"That very distance may be why they fail to accept you," she murmured into his hair. "Not everyone is your enemy."

* * *

She left him there, hurrying through the tunnels and up the many stairs to the theatre proper.

"Christine, where have you been?" Meg demanded, appearing from the dancers' dressing room with a wardrobe assistant behind her, attempting to fasten the hooks on the back of her bodice. "Where's Erik? Monsieur Reyer is looking for him."

"He won't be here," Christine said, adding before her friend could speak, "Don't ask me, Meg, it's too complicated."

Meg frowned. "He's hiding again, isn't he?"

"I think he's always hiding. Even with me. I'm sorry, I must go and get ready." Ignoring Meg calling her name she almost ran to her dressing room, where Michelle was waiting to fix her hair and help her into Gilda's peasant costume. Outside in the corridor the ten minute bell rang and one of the call boys was shouting for the 'overture and beginners!' She could hear the orchestra tuning up and the rumble of conversation from the auditorium. Usually Erik would be there to settle the butterflies in her stomach but tonight he had just made them worse. Christine almost wanted to beat her head against the table in frustration; for every step forwards, he took two back. He deserved to be among the crowd tonight, not lurking on the fringes, watching the fruits of his labour along with the rest of the company. And instead he was sitting alone, five storeys below the theatre, all because he refused to believe that things had changed, that _he_ had changed.

There was a knock at the door. "Five minutes, Mademoiselle Daae!"

Gathering up her shawl and checking her make-up one last time in the mirror, Christine stepped out into the passage and headed for the wings. On her way she met Marie Durant; the mezzo had been bulked and aged up to play Gilda's nurse and was looking worried, wringing her hands nervously.

"Oh, Christine, there you are!" she exclaimed. "Have you seen Monsieur Claudin? I need to speak to him about that scene in Act Two, I'm not sure that I should - "

"He's indisposed," Christine told her, inwardly cursing Erik for forcing her to make excuses for him. "He's not here; I'm sorry."

Marie's face fell. "Oh, dear! I suppose we shall just have to muddle through, but... he's not terribly ill, I hope?"

"A slight cold; he didn't want to risk passing it on to anyone."

"Understandable. Oh, I do wish he was here, though; he's made me see my character in a completely different light. You are lucky to have such an intelligent man as your maestro, Christine," Marie said as they stood to the side of the stage, awaiting their cue. "The two of you must have had some illuminating discussions!"

Christine found herself smiling, her colleague's words bringing back memories of long evenings spent beside the fire in Erik's library, when he would hold forth upon a bewildering array of subjects and she was content just to listen to his voice. "Oh, yes indeed."

"I wish my singing teacher had been so knowledgeable. He was well enough, I suppose, but he did not inspire one. Has Monsieur Claudin travelled, do you know? He seems remarkably well-read, and so fluent in Italian!"

"I think he may have been to Italy in his youth," Christine said hesitantly. "I am afraid I don't know that much about his past."

Marie sighed, and then smiled. "A man of mystery, eh? Well, I do hope he decides to stay on. Marius will come round eventually; he's not such a fool as to ignore someone who can help him with his career for long. And as Monsieur Claudin _did_ save his life - "

"You're exaggerating, Marie!"

"All right, saved him from a nasty accident. Whichever it was, Marius can hardly continue to regard your maestro as a threat after that," the mezzo announced firmly.

Christine hoped that she was right.

* * *

"_Oh! Stay my child! Oh! My Gilda!_

_Leave me not here alone!_

_Well! In heav'n above_

_There shall my prayers be raised for - "_

Christine, cradled in Alphonse Renard's arms, gave a heavy sigh, eyelids fluttering. She felt his fingers ghost across her hair and down her arm; they passed dangerously close to her breast and she surreptitiously smacked his ankle. He winced but amazingly did not break character, his voice anguished as she listed to one side, her body going limp as the theatrical blood from the pack concealed beneath her shirt spread across its pristine white front. She did not envy Madame Michon and her assistants, who would have to wash the gooey substance from the fabric. Gilda, desperately taking the place of her love the Duke, had been murdered in his place by the assassin in her father's pay. Her death brought the opera to a close as Alphonse drew out the last few lines.

"_Do not die!_

_Leave me not here alone!_

_Do not die!"_

He laid her gently down upon the boards, and beneath her lids she saw him rise slowly to his feet, turning towards the audience. As he did, much to her surprise she thought she caught a flash of white amongst the faces of those watching from the wings. Meg was there, ever the romantic, tears making her stage paint run in thick dark rivulets down her cheeks. Christine tried to raise her head slightly, but Augustine hissed from behind for her to keep still as Alphonse's heartbreaking final appeal rang through the auditorium:

"_Gilda!_

_My Gilda!_

_All's dark now!_

_Ah! Yes, his curse is on... me!"_

Amid tumultuous applause the curtain fell, shutting out the image of the audience upon its feet. Christine scrambled up, glad that her male costume made such things infinitely easier than they would be in skirts and hoops, craning her neck to try and see beyond the members of the company who were now filing onto the stage to take their bows. Madame Giry was ushering the ballerinas into line at the front, checking their costumes were straight and wiping away the worst of Meg's spoilt make-up as though her daughter were a small child with jam on her face. Before Christine could even ask if the ballet mistress had seen Erik she was pulled aside by Alphonse and all but dragged to the back of the line to take her place between him and an unusually subdued Marius, who had toned down his portrayal of the Duke quite considerably after the incident with the backcloth.

They made three curtain calls before the drapes were closed for the final time and she could return to her dressing room. Several people tried to speak to her on the way, but she barely acknowledged them, ducking through the chaotic throng of cast and crew, all hurrying in different directions in extremely narrow corridors. Three hopeful young men with bouquets were already waiting for her, and having to fend off their advances slowed her down, but eventually she managed to escape, entering her sanctuary and locking the door behind her. She leaned on it for several moments, just getting her breath back and wondering if she had really seen Erik in the wings at all. There had been no sign of him amongst the backstage tumult. When she did raise her head, however, she knew immediately that she was not alone.

"Brava, Christine," he said, his voice caressing her left ear. She turned to see him leaning against the mirror, immaculate in white tie and tails with his beautiful beaded cloak, the Phantom in all his glory. "It was a triumph, just as I knew it would be."

"Where were you watching from?" Christine asked. "I thought I saw you in the wings, at the end."

Erik inclined his head. "I watched from various positions, but yes, I was in the wings. You died very prettily, though I cannot say that I wish to witness it again. The blood looked far too real."

"I would not have thought that such things mattered to you." She remembered the little Madame Giry had told her about his past.

"They do when it is the woman one cares about more than anything else in the world apparently expiring before your eyes. I think I may have to insist that you take on only comic roles in the future." He averted his eyes from her gore-splattered shirt and she quickly moved behind her dressing screen, wriggling out of the shirt and breeches and into a thick robe which covered her curves so completely that he could not possibly think it inflammatory.

"What made you change your mind?" she enquired, sitting down to brush her hair. She could see Erik pulling a face in the mirror. "Was it Madame?"

He folded his arms, and Christine swore he was pouting. "That woman knows everything," he complained. "She lets herself into my house at will now. I am certain I did not give her a key!"

"She has obviously learned too much from you." Christine turned on her stool to look at him. "I'm glad you decided to come."

A smile touched the unmasked side of his face, and he took the hand she held out, squeezing it gently. "As am I. You all deserved your standing ovation."

"Even Marius DuPre?"

"His performance has improved," Erik grudgingly allowed.

"Of course, you had nothing to do with that, did you?" Christine asked.

He shrugged. "I _am_ his director."

"And the Phan - " Before she could finish there were voices in the passage, voices she recognised as belonging to the new managers.

"Where the devil is that man?" Marigny was demanding. "Anyone would think he could vanish into thin air!"

"Perhaps he's a will 'o the wisp," Fontaine suggested, his speech slightly slurred. "Don't worry yourself, my dear fellow; Claudin will turn up eventually. He was probably cornered by that dreadful mistress of the Duc de Guéret; she wants to be a singer, but personally I think she'd be more at home in a back-street bordello than on the stage of the Paris Opera!"

"I hope you didn't tell him that," his colleague said sharply. "He brings large parties two or three times a month; we need his custom!"

"Sometimes, Claude, I think you don't trust me." Fontaine's tone was one of wounded dignity. "Why would I do a thing like – ah! Here we are!" There was a loud knock on the door, and before Christine could even find her voice it opened to reveal the managers themselves, dressed to the nines and looking – particularly in Fontaine's case – a little flushed.

"Mademoiselle Daae," said Marigny with a despairing glance at his partner, who had bowed so low that his nose practically touched his knees, "Our sincere apologies for this intrusion."

"We just had to come and congratulate you in person," Fontaine announced, holding out the bottle of champagne that had been sliding dangerously from his grip. "A triumph, Mademoiselle, a triumph! The Opera Populaire is back with a bang!" He let go of the bottle and only Erik's quick reflexes prevented the bang in question being that of broken glass all over the carpet.

Marigny rolled his eyes. "We must get you a new a dressing room," he said, running his gaze over Christine's little chamber, over the battered table and sofa, the peeling paint and the threadbare rugs. "This one is rather shabby, and too far away from the stage. We can do much better than this."

"Oh, but Monsieur, I like this one," Christine cried quickly. "It is so very... cosy."

"Nonsense!" Fontaine said. "A rising star needs much better accommodation. We'll take care of it in the morning."

"But, Monsieur, I don't think - "

"Perhaps a coat of paint and some new furniture would be a suitable compromise?" Erik suggested, his voice startling the managers, who had apparently not even realised he was in the room.

"Mon Dieu, Claudin!" exclaimed Fontaine. "_There_ you are, you sly dog! You must have run to make it here before us. Marigny was just looking for you; weren't you, old man?"

Marigny grabbed his arm as the other man began to lurch to one side. "The Marquis de Borges was most anxious to make your acquaintance," he told Erik, whose spine stiffened and he instinctively back up towards the mirror. "However, I believe he will probably be ensconced in the Cafe Garnier by now and it would not do to disturb him."

Erik looked relieved, at least until Fontaine said brightly, "It doesn't matter. You can meet him at the masquerade tomorrow evening! I'm sure you'll have a lot to talk about. Did I hear that you were from Normandy? He has a chateau in the forest near Rouen. Perhaps you are neighbours!"

"Take no notice of him; he becomes a little... enthusiastic on opening night. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. We need to discuss the matter of a contract, but I believe Monday morning in the office may be a more appropriate time for that," Marigny added, steering his inebriated colleague from the room. "Goodnight to you both."

The door closed behind them, leaving Christine and Erik staring at each other.


	25. A Night to Remember

**Author's Note:  
**

Chapter title courtesy of Shalamar, from a song I actually can't stand, but hey. *shrugs*

* * *

**A NIGHT TO REMEMBER**

The door closed behind the managers, leaving them alone.

"Well!" Christine said. "It looks as though you're going to be offered a job!"

Erik looked unconvinced. "I'm not entirely sure that I want one." He cocked his head to one side, the visible side of his face creased in confusion. "Did all of that really just happen or am I dreaming again?"

"They are obviously pleased with your work." She took the bottle of champagne from his unresisting hands and set it on the dressing table, looking around for something in which to serve it. "Would you like a drink? I don't have any glasses..."

"Marigny is right, you _do_ deserve better than this," he said as he watched her rummage in a drawer and produce a pair of slightly chipped cups. "Though why he is advocating a new dressing room when you are not to be the star - "

"Erik." Christine laid a finger against his misshapen lips, silencing him. "I don't mind that someone else will be taking the limelight, really I don't." He mumbled something, and she shook her head. "I have my reputation to make, or rather repair, and it will be far easier to do so without the glare of attention directed at me. I do not have to worry about whether I am the darling of the journals and the toast of society; I can leave that to the new Prima Donna and concentrate on my voice. You have, after all, continually stressed its importance."

He sighed, reaching up to remove her hand, though not without kissing her fingers first. "I always meant you to be the star."

"I will be. In time. I am quite content to wait, you know."

Erik's mouth twitched. "You have more patience than I, my dear."

"I am well aware of that," she told him, laughing. A feeling of euphoria was beginning to spread through her, a mixture of happiness and relief. She was treading the boards once again, the performance had been a success and she could almost have been walking on air. Taking up a ballet stance, she executed a slightly clumsy pirouette. "Why don't you open that champagne while I get dressed? It would be a shame to waste it."

As she nipped back behind the screen she noticed that Erik hadn't moved. "I should leave you to change," he said, glancing towards the door.

"Whatever for? I'm quite hidden."

"So you are, but it cannot be proper for me to be in the room while you are in a state of undress. Only a certain type of actress entertains gentlemen in such a manner." His disapproving tone left Christine in no doubt of his thoughts on the matter. "I will wait outside."

"You aren't going to disappear on me, are you?" she asked, poking her head around the screen so that she could see him.

He picked up his hat. "I had been wondering whether you would like to spend the night downstairs. It is rather an inclement evening, and I - "

"Actually," Christine said, sweeping her gaze to the floor and admiring the mirror-like shine on his shoes, "I was hoping we might go out somewhere. Together. Just the two of us."

There was a pause. When he spoke, Erik's normally commanding voice was small, hesitant. "Do you... do you mean dîner à deux?"

"We could go somewhere quiet. It's late, no one would even notice your mask." She looked up, and added as his fingers stole towards his mouth, "Please? It would mean so much to me. You don't have to eat; we'll just order some wine and cheese." She gave him a hopeful smile. "The cheese will be for me."

His gaze strayed again towards the door. "But what will people think if we are seen leaving together?"

"I imagine they will think you are courting me. Is that not what you are doing, Monsieur?" she asked, mischievously. "I sincerely hope it is, or I will have to fear for my reputation after all."

For a long moment he just looked at her, and then she was rewarded with the sound of his musical chuckle rumbling in his chest. "I suppose I am. I had never really thought of it that way."

Christine's smile grew. "Go and find us a cab. I'll be ready in five minutes."

"As my lady commands." Something very like a grin touched his face and he set the fedora on his head at a rakish angle, reaching for the doorknob. No sooner had he got it open, however, than he collided with a bundle of striped satin and blonde curls that Christine belatedly realised was Meg, who had apparently launched herself at him with all the velocity of a rocket, nearly knocking him over. Erik staggered, grabbing hold of a chair so as not to lose his balance, and looked down in consternation at the ballerina attached to his waist. His hand hovered over her hair, as though unsure whether she required comfort, and he turned his mismatched eyes towards Christine, mutely pleading for assistance.

Christine tightened the belt on her robe and stepped around the screen once more. "Meg, whatever is the matter?"

Meg's voice was muffled by Erik's coat. "It was so wonderful! I cried and cried!" She raised her head slightly. "I never cried so much when Monsieur Reyer directed!"

"I didn't mean to upset you, Meg," Erik said gently, utterly perplexed.

"Oh, you didn't! You _didn't_!" Meg insisted, but there were still tears on her cheeks as she buried her head in his chest once more. "It was beautiful. So, so..." She hiccupped. "So _sad_!"

"Meg Giry, let Erik go this instant." The stern voice of Madame cut through the little ballerina's wails, and she appeared in the doorway, raising her eyes heavenward at the sight of her daughter clinging to an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Phantom. "Good grief... anyone would think you were still six years old!"

Erik was visibly grateful to be extricated from Meg's embrace, but when she gave him an apologetic smile he returned it and produced a handkerchief from behind her ear which he presented to her with a little bow. She accepted it gratefully, wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said in a wobbly voice. "You must think me dreadfully silly, but I've never been so affected by _Rigoletto_ before."

Madame Giry's face softened and she patted Meg's shoulder before turning to Erik and Christine. "I have been charged with the task of asking if you will join the rest of the cast at the Cafe de l'Opera for a little celebration," she announced, adding, "The invitation is for both of you; Monsieur Reyer was most insistent upon that point."

"And you know what a tartar he is," Meg put in. "He won't take no for an answer."

Erik was shaking his head, once more retreating towards the mirror. Christine said, casting a meaningful glance in his direction, "We had just made plans to go out together. Somewhere a little more... secluded."

"I was specifically requested to ask you to come," the ballet mistress said, noticing his discomfort. "The cast want to thank you, Erik. We haven't had an audience reaction like that since Christine sang Elissa; at least allow them to show their appreciation."

Christine and Erik exchanged a helpless glance.

"Just one drink?" he asked warily.

"I suppose it can't hurt," Christine conceded. "Can it?"

* * *

The light from the cafe windows fell in large rectangles on the wet pavement; from within came the sound of laughter and someone playing the piano. The tune was rough and off-key thanks to the quality of the instrument, and was soon accompanied by such raucous singing that it would be hard to believe those behind it were the cream of the Paris Opera. They sounded like a group of bar room drunks, already under the influence of the wine that would be flowing freely.

Christine took a tighter hold of Erik's hand as they stood under the awning with Meg and Madame Giry. The visible side of his face was pale and strained, and she could feel him trembling. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked him softly. "We can turn around and go home, spend a nice quiet evening together, if you'd prefer."

He swallowed hard and said, "No. I must face them at some point. I can't hide underground forever."

"Well said," Madame told him. Head held high, the feathers on her hat bobbing, she pushed open the plate glass door, leaving the rest of them to trail along in her wake. The singing briefly stopped as she entered, but it began again, louder than before when Erik and Christine followed, Meg on their heels. It took Christine several moments to recognise a very slurred rendition of _For He's a Jolly Good Fellow_; Erik stood there, just across the threshold, blinking in surprise as they were suddenly surrounded by people, everyone talking at once and trying to push glasses of champagne into their hands.

"We've sent Gianni to the offices of _Le Figaro_," Alphonse announced from his vantage point, standing on a chair at the back of the room. "As soon as the first reviews are off the presses, we'll have them!"

"The poor boy; he'll be waiting outside all night!" Marie Durant whispered to Christine.

"Knowing Alphonse, he'll be here till dawn anyway," said Meg, overhearing. "Unfortunately he won't be in any condition to read by then!"

"I'll have you know that I can hold my drink, Mademoiselle Meg," the baritone retorted. "Unlike some others I could mention." He jerked a thumb towards a pile of limbs in the corner which Christine realised belonged to Guillaume the bass and Frederick, the Bavarian tenor. Both of them were snoring loudly; Alphonse gave Frederick a kick and the man snorted, rolling onto his side and flopping a limp arm over his colleague's chest. Guillaume didn't react.

"They have only been here an hour," Monsieur Reyer said, making his way through the crush and reaching out to shake Erik's hand. "I don't know... whatever must you think of us?"

Erik, recovering from his initial paralysis, ran an amused eye over the gathering. "I see nothing wrong in men enjoying themselves, Monsieur."

"Of course, of course. I must stress, however, that this is not a common occurrence. We do like to maintain a_ little _decorum," replied the musical director, glancing towards the gaggle of ballerinas around a table in the window, who called out and beckoned to Meg. It was not long before they were the source of high-pitched discussion and hoots of laughter. Reyer shook his head despairingly, before returning his attention to his guests. "Enough of that. Do come and sit down; you both deserve a drink after all your efforts."

Augustine Albert sashayed past as they followed Reyer towards the rear of the cafe, wearing a gown with a dangerously low neckline in an unflattering shade of pink. She tried to catch Erik's attention but he was too busy concentrating on keeping his composure in the face of so many people; Christine shot her a warning glare which caused the other soprano's lips to thin. They sat down with Reyer, who immediately began to talk of his ideas for the coming season; it was not long before he and Erik were deep in discussion about the relative merits of Mozart and Rossini, and whether the comic operettas emerging from England were of any interest. Christine, carefully sipping her champagne, found herself gravitating towards the ballet rats' table, where Meg moved over to make room for her.

"I think he might actually be enjoying himself," Meg said, nudging Christine with her elbow and pointing to where Erik sat, talking animatedly and wagging a long finger under Reyer's nose to emphasise whatever point he was making. The musical director nodded sagely.

"I think you may be right," Christine agreed, smiling fondly. It was a sight she had never expected to see: Erik out for the evening and interacting with others like a normal man. From this angle, his mask was barely visible.

Alphonse approached the table. "May I join you, ladies?" he enquired, taking a chair before anyone could answer and straddling it, leaning his arms along the back. The ballerinas giggled and preened. He took a deep drink from his glass of claret and said, "Has anyone seen Marius?"

"We thought you had come to talk to us," said Giselle, sounding disappointed.

"He was outside the stage door when we left, with a strange man," Hortense told the baritone, ignoring her. "I think they were arguing; the man shouted and jabbed Marius like this." She dug a finger into Giselle's shoulder; Giselle squealed and scooted closer to Meg.

Alphonse frowned. "Did you hear what they were saying?"

"Well..." Hortense considered. "I think the man was accusing Marius of backing out of something. I'm sorry; I was admiring my new dress in the window across the street so I wasn't really listening." She smoothed down her skirts and looked hopeful, but Alphonse did not take the hint.

"Marius probably owes him money," Dorothée said, and they all nodded. "Marius owes _everyone_ money."

"Perhaps it was a tout," Sorelli suggested, dabbing delicately at her nose with a powder puff as she examined her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Normally she did not socialise with the members of the corps de ballet, but her latest beau had evidently forsaken her this evening. "They are always trying to get free tickets that they can sell at an exorbitant sum."

Meg and Christine exchanged a glance. They knew exactly who the man was: Francois Béringer.

"Oh, look! There's Marius now!" Giselle cried, pointing to a figure approaching through the rain. The tenor was stalking down the street, his face set in an expression of irritation, and it was soon obvious why. Béringer was following him.

"I've seen that fellow hanging around the theatre," said Alphonse, rising from his chair. "He offered Gianni money to tell him backstage gossip."

"He's a reporter," Meg told him. "We've been approached, too." She didn't mention that the journalist seemed to have particularly targeted Christine.

As the two men came closer it was possible to hear what they were saying. Marius stopped and turned to face his pursuer. "Go away, Monsieur; I have nothing more to say to you!"

"I'm going nowhere!" Béringer snarled. "You promised me - "

"I promised you nothing!"

"Our agreement - "

"Is at an end. I can do no more for you. Good night!" Marius opened the door of the cafe, shaking the water from his hat. As he did, Béringer pushed past, barring his way.

"If you won't help me, maybe I should speak to some of your friends. I have learnt a lot, Monsieur, information which could damage you. The Populaire is riding high thanks to tonight's performance, but it can be brought to its knees once more quite easily. The tales of the Phantom - "

Marius's face drained of colour, and Christine glanced towards Reyer's table, only to find that the musical director was alone. Erik had disappeared. "You are delusional, Monsieur," Marius said, a slight tremor in his voice. "There is no Phantom."

Alphonse was approaching, weaving his way between the tables. Several of the other men who remained sober enough, and one or two that didn't, were also on their feet, drawn by the commotion. The ballerinas were watching eagerly, Hortense having climbed on a chair to see better over peoples' heads. "My apologies, Monsieur, this is a private gathering," the baritone said, tapping Béringer on the shoulder. "I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave."

Béringer looked up at the big man, who stood squarely blocking the entrance, meaty hands on his hips. "Just a few questions," he said with a weasely smile. "I am a journalist with _Le Figaro_, and the first interview with the triumphant cast of _Rigoletto_ - "

"You told us you were with _L'Epoque_," Meg announced from behind Alphonse.

"He told me _Le Monde_!" called one of the violinists, starting a veritable chorus of newspaper names from around the room.

"You must be very busy, Monsieur, with such an impressive list of employers," Alphonse remarked. "It sounds to me as if you are no more than a hack, hoping to sell our words to the highest bidder."

"That's exactly what he is," said Christine coldly. The baritone glanced round at her in surprise, and Béringer shot her a look of pure hatred.

"I'm not leaving," he declared. "This is a public place, and I would like a drink."

Maurice, the cafe's head waiter, put down the tray he was carrying on a nearby table. "We are closed for the evening, Monsieur," he replied, taking up a stance at Alphonse's side and deliberately folding his arms. "I suggest you try the establishment on the corner."

Faced with three large, angry men, Béringer had little choice but to retreat. Marius stood aside to allow him to pass, and the journalist's face creased in an ugly sneer. "I'll ruin you," he spat. "When I'm done you won't even be able to get a part in the cabaret at Le Coque d'Or!"

"I had no idea your influence spread so widely," Marius told him, some of his usual bravado returning with the support of his colleagues. "Do please give my regards to the management there on your next visit." The burst of laughter from within the cafe stopped whatever Béringer had been about to say on his tongue, and he turned, slinking away into the gloom as Alphonse shut the door behind him with a flourish.

There was a moment of silence, and then the babble of conversation began once more, louder than before as everyone began to discuss the altercation. Christine would have returned to the table, but there was still no sign of Erik. When she questioned Monsieur Reyer, the musical director informed her that he had stepped outside for some air.

"Is he quite well, Mademoiselle Daae?" Reyer asked, obvious worry in his voice. "One moment we were having a most enlightening chat about the finer points of Wagner, and the next he looked as though he might faint."

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He isn't used to such gatherings," Christine assured him, wishing that she had kept a closer eye on Erik instead of being drawn in by the fracas in the doorway. "I'll go and find him."

* * *

It was chilly outside, and she was glad of her cloak when she pulled the hood over her head as the rain was heavier now. Trying not to stray from the pools of light cast by the cafe windows, she called softly into the darkness, "Erik? Erik, are you there?"

For a moment she saw nothing, and then she shadows shifted and he was beside her, water dripping from the brim of his fedora and giving him a slightly bedraggled appearance. "You will catch cold," he said.

"As will you. How long have you been out here?"

He shrugged. "A few minutes. I needed to... escape for a while."

"You missed all the excitement. Monsieur Reyer thought you were ill," Christine told him. She tried to reach up to feel his forehead, but it was impossible through the mask and he jerked his head away, embarrassed. "_Are_ you ill? You look a little unsteady."

"Just overwhelmed," he said. "It was rather close in there. And crowded. I have not been amongst so many people in a very long time." His gaze dropped towards the floor and he seemed to find the hem of her dress extremely interesting. "You must forgive my cowardice."

Remembering how scared he had been the first day he emerged into the outside world and how far he had come since then, Christine's heart went out to him. "I think you are very brave," she said. He shook his head, but she insisted, "Yes, you are. I wish you would believe me when I tell you so." Reaching out a hand she gently grasped his chin, lifting his face to meet hers. "Promise me that you will never call yourself a coward again."

"If there is anything in the world that makes me brave, it is you," Erik said, his voice hoarse. "I never had a reason to be brave before we met."

"That's not true. You have survived so much - "

"There is no bravery in merely existing, and for many years I did no more than that." He tucked a lock of hair beneath her hood, pulling the fabric closer around her chin. "You must go back inside."

"Will you come with me?" she asked, taking his hand.

"I think not." He smiled slightly. "I have a sudden longing for the quiet of my cellars, a glass of cognac and the company of just one other person."

Christine glanced over her shoulder, through the condensation which was fogging the windows to the boisterous gathering within. It appeared that Reyer had been prevailed upon to occupy the pianist's stool, and a Gilbert and Sullivan song filled the air, a rather red-faced Alphonse taking the lead. Maurice was bringing more wine, one or two couples were dancing and the picture was one of cheerful conviviality. It should have been enticing, but she found that she had no desire to be a part of it. Squeezing Erik's fingers, she said,

"So have I. Come on; let's go home."


	26. Let's Face The Music And Dance

**Author's Note:  
**

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who have taken the time to review, and especially to my regular reviewers. I really do appreciate all your comments. :)

Today's chapter is on a theme I've used more than once, both in my Phantom and Sherlock Holmes fic, but it's one I love so I'm doing it again with a slightly different twist. It probably comes of the fact that I'd love to be able to waltz, but sadly have two left feet.

On with the story...

* * *

**LET'S FACE THE MUSIC AND DANCE**

"How is it, Madame, that you seem able to come and go from my house at will?"

It was early on Saturday morning; leaving Meg to sleep after the previous evening's performance Antoinette had let herself in through the gate on the Rue Scribe and descended to the fifth cellar carrying a letter that had come with the first post. Seeing the mark of origin in the corner it was clear that Erik should see it as soon as possible but his frosty words as she entered his library made her think twice. Before she could answer he rose from his armchair and crossed the room to stand before her, arms folded and a forbidding expression on the visible side of his face. Madame Giry liked to think that she was not to be intimidated, and as that was his obvious intention she ignored him and said,

"Good morning to you, too, Erik. I take it from your tone that you got out of bed on the wrong side."

His mouth twitched in annoyance. "You must have taken a key. Where is it?" One of his large, long-fingered hands unfurled expectantly; she took no notice of that, either.

"It is common courtesy to offer a guest a drink," she told him, settling herself on the sofa. "Tea would be most welcome, and a biscuit if you have any. I neglected to make breakfast before I left."

"In that case, I suggest you go home and prepare some and leave me in peace," Erik snapped, regarding her as though he was considering how hard it would be to pick her up and carry her from his abode. Antoinette did not doubt that he would do so if pushed, but she held her ground.

"You know how I take tea: two lumps of sugar, not too strong. And remember to warm the pot first. You should have some of those petit fours left; I only brought them down last week."

"Unfortunately they have all gone. Christine is rather partial to them." He glared at her for some moments, hands on hips, before she heard him chuckle. "God above, Annie, you would try the patience of a saint! What do you want?"

Madame held up the letter. "This arrived. I thought it best to bring it to you." Taking it, he frowned, and then to her surprise tossed it unopened onto his desk where it landed amid a jumble of music sheets and other paperwork. "Aren't you going to open it? It's from Rouen - "

"Later. I have more pressing business at present." Turning away from her Erik ran a distracted hand through his hair and began to pace back and forth across the hearthrug, his usual habit when he was thinking. He was in his shirt sleeves, his jacket discarded over the back of a chair. It was an unusual occurrence; even at such an early hour he always made sure that he looked immaculate, his suit perfectly pressed, hair neatly brushed to disguise the spots where it grew thin. Antoinette supposed the meticulous care he took with his appearance was an attempt to in some way make up for the terrible hand that nature had dealt him; he did all that he could to present the picture of a handsome man, to compensate for the reality behind the mask.

When it became evident that if she wanted tea she would have to fetch it herself, she got up and made for Erik's little kitchen. On her way she passed the alcove with the red velvet curtains and was relieved to see that there was no sign of the wax facsimile of Christine; in its place stood a tailor's dummy wearing a long, flowing panelled cloak of shimmering black and gold silk. Madame Giry was grateful for the waxwork Christine's absence. The thing had unnerved her with its fixed glassy stare; goodness only knew how the poor girl had felt encountering it every time she entered Erik's home.

The kitchen was a room into which he rarely ventured, despite their attempts to encourage him to eat more. She found a half full tin of tea in the tiny larder as well as a couple of brioche that were past their best but would have to do. There was milk in the pantry; to her surprise when she tried an experimental sniff it turned out to be fresh, proving that he must have been out for some provisions in the last couple of days. Mounting an investigation Antoinette discovered the remains of a loaf and some dried fruit but precious little else.

Erik was sitting at the piano when she returned carrying a tray, drumming his fingers on the closed lid. His agitation was obvious but Madame was not going to ask him about it; if he wanted to tell her he would do so in his own time and she was not about to risk being on the receiving end of his temper by prying. Settling back into her seat she poured out two cups and taking up her own remarked,

"You're actually going to attend this evening, then."

He jumped, and turned to look at her. "How did you know?"

She gestured to the dummy in the alcove. "Unless your sartorial style is making a radical change, that would appear to be part of a masquerade costume."

"Nothing escapes you, does it?"

"I am a mother, Erik," Antoinette told him. "I will confess to being somewhat surprised that you have agreed to go."

"Christine wants to. I did tell her that it might be a little awkward given what happened at the last bal masque, but she informed me that the disaster it became was no one's fault but my own." Erik shook his head, a rueful smile touching his lips. "She was quite emphatic upon that point. Apparently the onus is upon me to make it up to her."

Madame took a sip of her tea. "You did humiliate her in the most appallingly public way, not to mention scaring everyone witless with your magic tricks and that ridiculous costume. Wherever did you find it?"

"In one of the old trunks at the back of the prop room. It wasn't ridiculous," he said defensively.

"'I am Red Death stalking abroad.'" She raised an eyebrow. "A touch melodramatic?"

Erik sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, looking down at his clasped hands. "I don't know how she can find it in her heart to forgive me for my inexcusable behaviour. Were I the wronged party I would not find it so easy."

"She does so because she loves you," Antoinette said, putting down her cup and getting to her feet. She patted his shoulder. "Now, are you going to tell me what this marvellous creation of yours is going to be?"

He didn't move, and when she turned back to him his visible cheek had coloured slightly and he was gnawing on his bottom lip.

"Is something else the matter?" she asked.

"I... I have never been to a ball before; at least not as an invited guest." He shifted uncomfortably on the piano stool and she realised that he was embarrassed. "There will be music. And... dancing."

"Of course, that is the whole point - " She broke off, belatedly comprehending his meaning. "You... Erik, do you not know how to dance?"

He gave a humourless laugh. "It was a little difficult to find willing partners. No one wants to dance with the Devil." As he heaved another sigh, Antoinette decided it was time to act before he sank into self-pity.

"You have great natural grace, and as a musician you should also have rhythm. I know too that you are a quick learner, which is as well since we have only a few hours," she said. She held out a hand to him, which he just stared at as though she had offered him a dead fish. "Come on; on your feet."

Erik looked bewildered. "Whatever for?"

She clucked her tongue impatiently. "I am going to teach you how to waltz, idiot. Do you think I can only dance the ballet? I'll have you know that I was whirled around many a ballroom before Meg was born."

"I'm sure you must have graced the most select society parties," Erik said, his single eyebrow flicking upwards. She took his right hand in hers and drew the left around to rest in the small of her back. He flinched at the close contact and tried to pull away but she would not let him. "Is there no way of learning at a little more distance?"

"One cannot waltz at arm's length."

"I was afraid of that. Does no one dance the minuet or the quadrille any more?"

"You'll be asking me to teach you the pavane next," Antoinette retorted. "This isn't the court of Francois the First, Erik. We do things a little differently now."

"Yes, I know, but..." He flushed again, as he looked down to where their bodies were pressed against one another. "This is hardly proper."

She found herself smiling, which caused his face to redden even more. "You really are a gentleman, aren't you? I seem to remember that you weren't so shy with Christine during _Don Juan_."

"That was completely different. And it was Christine. This is... awkward."

"Then pretend I am Christine. Now, follow me," Madame told him before he could protest. "And do try not to tread on my toes. I'm sure neither of us would enjoy your having to carry me up five flights of stairs and explain to Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine exactly how their ballet mistress came to end up with a broken foot."

* * *

"There, that's it! You've got it!"

"And I only had to sacrifice two vases and a rare Chinese sculpture," Erik said as they took a turn past the mantel, Antoinette's skirts swirling gracefully around her ankles. As she had expected, he was extremely light on his feet, and once he started humming to compensate for the lack of music he picked up the steps in record time. Before too long he was confidently taking the lead, twirling her around the library with an enviable agility.

"Yes, well, I should have thought to clear the floor before we started," she replied. "I am not used to having to avoid furniture when dancing."

He threw back his head and his seldom-heard laughter rang through the room. It was a wonderful sound. "So, you think I will pass muster, then?" he asked.

"You'll do. It will enable you to dance two measures with Christine at least."

"Only two?" Surprise and then anger flared in his eyes. "So you _do_ think I'll disappoint her."

"Any more would be too particular," Madame told him as they came to an abrupt halt on the hearthrug. "Until you declare your intentions it would be wise not to monopolise her; people might get entirely the wrong idea."

Erik let her go, walking away to begin pushing the sofa back into place. As he fussed around, making sure it stood exactly in the grooves its weight had made in the carpet, she watched, knowing that she had made a promise not to raise the subject again. It was a promise she would have kept but for the fact of his ignorance of social etiquette; Christine's reputation had already suffered enough damage, intentional or otherwise, from his actions.

"My intentions, yes," he said, straightening one of the cushions with precision so that it sat at right angles to the sofa back. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the occasional tables, setting them back where they belonged. There had been a halt to the lesson earlier while he fetched dustpan and brush to sweep up the shards of pottery and china; neither of them noticed the table in their path and tripped over it, sweeping the ornaments from their shelves as they tried to right themselves.

"Have you... thought any more about them?" Antoinette asked. She would not usually be hesitant, but this was a delicate area in which to be treading.

"I never cease thinking about them." Erik stopped moving the furniture and turned to face her. His expression was calm, but serious. "Though I know that she spends all the time with me she can, when I have to let Christine go at the end of the day a little piece of me dies. I want her with me, beside me, Annie; I want to wake up to see her face on the pillow beside mine, to watch her as she sleeps. I grow weary of this solitary existence."

"Well, then - "

"Yes, I know what I have to do." He reached a hand into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a little black velvet jeweller's box which he held out to her. "Give me your honest opinion: do you think she will like it?"

Antoinette lifted the lid; inside nestled a simple gold band set with a single diamond flanked by two small rubies. It was delicate and tasteful, and far more fitted to a girl like Christine than the ostentatious ring she had been given by the vicomte, a ring which Christine revealed later had belonged to Raoul's grandmother. "I think," she said, "that it is perfect. Did you design it yourself?"

Erik nodded, taking back the box which vanished into his pocket once more. "A talented craftsman of my acquaintance turned the design into reality."

"When will you ask her?"

"I have been waiting for so long, trying to summon the courage," he said, sinking into his chair and staring into the empty fireplace. "Even now, the very idea of making such a momentous gesture, one that will change our lives forever, petrifies me. What will I do if she refuses?"

"Erik, she will not refuse," Madame told him, coming to perch on the arm. "Why should she?"

"You do not think that maybe, just _maybe_, she might take a long hard look at me and realise exactly what she would be taking on?" This time his bark of laughter was harsh. "I would not blame her if she turned and ran."

"She has proved herself before, on more than one occasion. Give her some credit; she deserves that at least." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Is it to be tonight?"

He nodded. "At midnight, when everyone else is unmasking. We have no need of such a thing; Christine unmasked me a long time ago."

"In that case, my dear," Antoinette said, bending down to kiss him on his undamaged cheek, "I wish you luck from the bottom of my heart."


	27. Life Is A Masquerade

**LIFE IS A MASQUERADE**

"Just a few more adjustments," Meg announced, putting down the hairbrush and taking a step back to appreciate the results of her labour. Her pale blue shepherdess's skirts rustled as she moved about, critically rearranging this curl and adding another hairpin to that twist, tutting to herself rather like her mother on a ballet corps inspection. Christine felt as though she was a human pin cushion and was almost afraid to turn her head in case Meg's magnificent creation began to unravel, but eventually her friend smiled and nodded. "You're done. And you look absolutely beautiful, Christine. Erik won't be able to keep his hands off you."

Christine stared at her reflection, wondering how the expensively-dressed young woman with the ivory silk flowers in her elegantly-styled hair could really be her. After several expeditions to the costume hire shops and finding nothing which appealed to her imagination, she had hit upon the idea of borrowing the cream and burgundy House of Worth gown from her wardrobe in Erik's home and sneaked it away a few days earlier, hoping that he wouldn't notice. Then in her excitement she couldn't wait to wear it, but now... now she was looking at someone she didn't recognise, someone who belonged in an entirely different world to the one she inhabited. This wasn't Christine Daae, aspiring soprano, before her in the mirror; it could have been Christine de Chagny, wife of one of the wealthiest aristocrats in France. Her hand stole to the necklace which she had found in the box on the dressing table with the long satin gloves and the pearl-studded combs which swept her curls back from her face, and it was all she could do to stop herself tearing it away from her throat. Erik had bought these items for her, wanting her to have nothing but the best, but she could not feel comfortable wearing them, even if it was only for a ball. By dressing this way it felt as though she was trying to turn herself into something she could never be.

Meg frowned. "Are you all right? You haven't said a word about your hair." Her eyes met Christine's in their double reflection, wide with concern. "Don't you like it?"

"No, no, it's wonderful, Meg, thank you," Christine said quickly, forcing herself to smile.

"Well, something's wrong. You've been as quiet as a mouse ever since you put that dress on." Meg sat down on her bed, making the springs of the mattress creak. It was so small; Christine found herself wondering again how Erik had managed to sleep in it for more than two months without his feet hanging over the edge. "What's the matter?"

Christine sighed. "Oh, I'm just being silly. Dressing up like this, pretending to be a great lady..."

"It reminds you of what you gave up?"

"No, nothing like that! It's just... well, I'm a poor girl from Uppsala. My parents would never have been able to afford the lace on this gown, and here I am preparing to parade about in it as though I was born to such things." With a huff, Christine blew her curls from her forehead and pulled off the necklace. "I'm a fraud."

To her surprise, Meg laughed. "Christine, that's the whole _point_ of a masquerade! Do I really look as though I'm about to herd sheep?" She jumped up and pirouetted for her friend's benefit; her dress of blue and pink tulle spun with her in a graceful circle, the rosebuds which held the overskirt, drawing it back to reveal the embroidered petticoat beneath, catching the light. Her golden ringlets fell down her back, barely confined by the picturesque bonnet she wore tied beneath her pointed chin with a huge satin bow; leaning against the armoire was a shepherd's crook, extravagantly decorated with yards of ribbon, hopelessly impractical for the task at hand. "Tonight is the night when you _can_ pretend to be someone else."

Unconvinced, Christine glanced back to the mirror. "I know. But I...Is this the person Erik really wants me to be?"

"Christine, Christine, you worry too much." Impulsively affectionate, Meg wrapped her arms around Christine's neck and hugged her. "Erik loves you just as you are, you _know_ that."

"Yes, but - "

"Girls, the cab is here! Are you ready to go?" The sharp knock on the door and Madame Giry's voice stalled any reply Christine might have made on her tongue.

Meg swept up the burgundy velvet cloak from the bed and held it out with a deep curtsy. "If my lady permits...?"

"Thank you." Christine couldn't help but smile as she set laid it across her shoulders and Meg fussed about settling the folds. "I'm sorry, Meg, I'm being foolish."

"We are going to have a wonderful time," the little ballerina said sternly as she put on her own wrap and collected her crook. "We are not going to let our evening be ruined by anyone, not even scarlet-clad opera-toting ghosts. Is that understood?"

"You really are turning into your mother," Christine told her, to which Meg gave an indignant squawk and hustled her out of the room.

* * *

The Opera House was a blaze of light as they arrived and Christine found herself gazing up at it in wonder. The occasions when the workers, those cogs who kept the great machine running smoothly, were allowed to see the building from the point of view of the patrons were rare; her only previous experience had been the last bal masque, when she climbed the steps on Raoul's arm, trying to hold her head high and pretend that she wasn't quaking inside, secretly both hoping for and dreading the appearance of her fallen angel.

Music, the light sound of a string quartet hired for the evening to give Monsieur Reyer and the orchestra a well-earned break, drifted from within, an elegant background to the chatter of the guests as they arrived in their fantastical outfits. Christine felt quite plain in comparison as they were passed by exotic sheiks and sultans, Indian moguls and figures from antiquity. The Parisian elite had all come out to play, hiding behind their masks and flaunting their extravagant creations. A footman helped one lady who was tottering under the weight of her Marie Antoinette wig, piled ridiculously high and crowned with a ship in full sail; she wobbled and almost toppled back down the stairs, threatening to flatten the overweight Charlemagne who was standing a little too close behind her.

As she entered the grand foyer, flanked by Meg and Madame Giry, Christine's gaze roamed the room, searching for Erik. He had promised that he would meet them there, claiming he had some business to attend to, but he gave no clue as to the nature of his costume and she had no idea who he could be. There were several very tall men milling about, their physique hidden by satin dominoes and padded doublets; was Erik the saturnine Henri II who stood by the staircase, his masked face obscured by a beard, pointedly ignoring the attentions of a tipsy Lucrezia Borgia, or could he possibly be that lurking hooded figure with the scythe, a dark version of the Red Death with which he had disrupted the ball at New Year?

"Look at that statue," Meg said, claiming Christine's attention. "It must be new; I've never noticed it before."

Christine's eyes followed her friend's pointing finger, and sure enough, to the right of the grand escallier was a sculpture very much out of keeping with the opulent decoration of the room. While the other statues were gilded, idealised forms, this one was black from head to toe, from the top of its tricorne hat to the cloak which almost seemed to brush the floor with its folds. A hood fell from the hat, shrouding the shape of the head and settling about the figure's shoulders; its arms were folded, and the wide cuffs of its robe fell aside to reveal a flash of gold lining to match the colour of the mask which served as its face. The mask held no expression; blankly it observed the room from the dark holes where its eyes should have been, and Christine could not suppress a shudder.

"Why would the managers buy something like that?" she wondered.

"It makes me shiver." Meg paused, and added, "Let's have a closer look." Before Christine could object she was off, slipping through the crowd. Christine exchanged a glance with Madame Giry; the ballet mistress raised an eyebrow before moving off after her daughter, leaving the soprano no choice but to follow.

Other people were giving the statue curious glances, but no one seemed interested enough to approach. By the time they caught Meg she was looking up into the golden mask, grinning at her reflection in the polished surface. "It's not a statue at all!" she told them, taking a handful of the inky cloak and letting the fabric fall through her fingers. "It's a dummy someone's dressed up in a costume!"

Christine frowned. "But why? It makes no sense."

"I want to see what's under here," Meg announced, standing on tiptoes and reaching for the mask. Before she got close she squealed in shock and Christine had to stifle a cry as the 'statue' suddenly moved, its arm sweeping up to grab Meg's wrist, pulling her hand away from its face.

"I would rather you didn't, Little Meg," a familiar voice said. "I don't think that this company is ready for such a sight."

Madame Giry smiled slightly as Meg stared for a moment before slapping the figure's arm with her free hand. "Good evening, Erik," she said. "I see you have surpassed yourself this time."

"Bon Soir, Antoinette." Erik lifted a hand in what was apparently a gold satin glove towards the mask; with the barest of touches it seemed to split in half and there was the normal side of his face, mouth turned upwards in a smirk. He looked the ballet mistress deliberately up and down and asked, "Precisely what have you come as? I'm sure I can't work it out for life of me."

Meg giggled and Christine hid her own smile behind her hand. Madame had come dressed exactly as she had been for the previous masquerade, in her habitual black, the only concession made towards the occasion her jet beaded tippet and the round sequined hat adorned with feathers which was pinned at an angle on her severely braided hair. In her hand she carried a mask on a stick, through which she observed the Phantom, her lips pursed. "Someone has to maintain some semblance of authority. I have to keep an eye on my girls, and they would hardly take any notice of me had I arrived dressed as Little Red Riding Hood."

"Oh, I don't know," Meg muttered to Christine, who had to bite hard on her lip to keep from laughing, "Erik could have come as the wolf."

"This is meant to be a party, Annie," Erik told her, but she shook her head.

"They become silly with no one to watch them, and a ballerina who is with child is no use to anyone."

"What are you, Erik?" Meg asked after a long silence when no one really knew what to say.

"A magician," he said seriously, and reached behind her head, withdrawing his hand to show that he was holding a pale pink rosebud which he presented to her with a courtly bow. He turned to Christine, and seemed to see her properly for the first time. His mismatched eyes moved over her figure, obviously recognising the dress; surprise flared within their depths for a moment before he recovered himself. With a flick of his wrist there was quite suddenly a deep red rose between his fingers which he offered to her; she took it, her hand resting in his, and he bent his head, brushing his lips over the back of her glove. "Christine, you look stunning. I never dared hope that I might see you in that gown; you have surpassed all of my expectations."

She blushed. "Do you really think so?"

Those eyes seemed to glow within the shadows of the mask, but they were soft, and full of affection. "You will be the belle of the ball, my dear, no question."

"No rose for me, Monsieur?" Madame Giry enquired, breaking the spell.

"How could I forget?" Erik snapped his fingers and a yellow rose was there; he held it out but pulled back before she could take it. "Perhaps I should keep hold of it for now; the expression on your face might cause the poor thing to wither."

Meg had to practically stuff her fist into her mouth to muffle her giggles. Her mother frowned, lips twitching. "As you are determined to be provoking, shall we join everyone else in the auditorium?"

"I think that is an excellent idea. Ladies?" Gallantly he offered one arm to Christine and the other to Meg. There was a moment of consternation when he realised he would be unable to escort Madame as well, but someone cleared their throat from behind; turning they found Monsieur Reyer standing there in the scarlet braided coat, white breeches and polished top hat of a circus ringmaster. He gave a jerky little bow.

"I would be delighted, Madame, if you would..." A little shyly he held out a crooked elbow to her, beaming when she accepted.

"Well, who knew? Reyer is a dark horse!" said Meg as they swept through the throng, following the musical director and ballet mistress up the grand escallier. Heads turned as they passed, the great and the good doubtless wondering who they were and what right they had to make such an entrance.

They were met at the top of the staircase by the managers, Marigny carefully controlled, Fontaine exuberantly welcoming, and despite her earlier misgivings Christine quite suddenly felt sure that the evening would be a success. After all, Erik was here with her, there was no jealous lover to spoil the proceedings, so what could possibly go wrong?

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Ooh, famous last words, Christine!

For those who may be interested, Erik's masquerade costume was inspired by the sculpture of artist Philip Jackson, which in turn takes its inspiration from the Venetian Carnivale. You can find his website here: philip jackson .uk /Large_works .htm Just remove the spaces. I was thinking particularly of the pieces called 'The Don' and 'The Magistrate'.

As this is the last update before the big day, I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas! See you on the 28th. :)


	28. As The World Falls Down

**Author's Note:  
**

****This week's chapter title comes courtesy of David Bowie.

* * *

**AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN**

Erik felt as though he had taken a tumble down the rabbit hole.

Here he was, a cursed freak as he had been told so often in his life, a monster not fit for human eyes, a beast, a creature no one would dare look upon without horror, welcomed into such select company with open arms, feted by the nobility with the most beautiful woman in the room on his arm. How had this come to pass? Would he one day wake and find that he was back in his world of night below the theatre, or worse, the cage in the gypsy carnival, forced to sing for his supper and make women and children scream to avoid a beating from his captors? Surely that was the cold reality and this the dream, the furthest flight of his imagination.

Marigny and Fontaine expressed astonishment at his inventive costume, the latter fascinated by the gold mask and its ability to break seamlessly in two. When he used simple sleight of hand to produce three gold Louis from Fontaine's ear he thought the man might have an apoplexy so enthusiastic did he become. An impulsive demonstration of his ventriloquism, making one of the statues on the staircase sing, practically had them eating out of his hand.

"Good Lord, Monsieur, is there nothing you cannot do?" Fontaine demanded. "How is it that you have spent so much of your career in obscurity? Such talents must surely be in demand!"

"I have a wide-ranging interest, sir, but there is little call for such abilities except in a circus or as a cheap entertainer," Erik replied, neglecting to mention that the circus was precisely where he had learned his tricks, while still a boy. "I wished to make more of myself than that."

"Quite so, quite so," Marigny said, nodding. He had come as Napoleon, even though he was somewhat taller than the emperor and had rather less hair. Someone had painted a dark curl onto his forehead; it looked perfectly well until he removed his hat to scratch his bald scalp, when it became isolated and rather ridiculous. His wife, to whom Erik had been introduced earlier in the evening, was her namesake the Empress Josephine, but unfortunately she cut a rather matronly figure in her high-waisted Directoire gown and feathered headdress. "And so you shall, if you stick with us. You can put your career as a petty scribbler behind you."

"I am not sure I wish to abandon my publisher just yet," Erik said carefully. "Every composer hopes to make a success of his work, and I have only just started upon that road. Music means a great deal to me, as I am sure you must appreciate."

Fontaine leaned forwards and rested a hand on his shoulder. It was obvious even as the ball began that he had been imbibing, and he maintained that if he did not test the punch it could not be deemed fit for public consumption. Privately Erik thought that those involved in the catering must be hard-pressed to maintain a constant supply of the stuff; Fontaine was not to be seen without a glass in his hand. His already ruddy face appeared to glow. "A good composer needs a patron, Monsieur," he announced, waving a hand expansively and almost knocking over a tray of champagne carried by a passing footman. He tapped the side of his nose and grinned. "We can help you with that, I believe."

And so it was that Erik found himself speaking with the Marquis de Borges, a rotund, bewhiskered gentleman dressed as Mark Anthony, whose jovial demeanour set him apart from most of the rest of his class. Erik despised the aristocracy on principle, but much to his surprise he found himself actually liking the marquis, who turned out to have a wide knowledge of the theatre and the opera in particular and a far sharper intellect than was obvious upon first impression. He seemed quite happy to converse upon the subject of Bizet and Berlioz, Salieri and Schubert, until a couple of concerned flunkeys came to explain that there were many more people deserving of his attention and that he needed to circulate. With a role of his eyes he waddled off, calling over his shoulder that they must resume their conversation at a more convenient time.

"You seem to be very popular this evening," Christine said quietly, making Erik jump. He had contrived to forget about it for most of the evening, but now that she was beside him again the ring box in his pocket seemed to sit there like a lead weight. He glanced at the clock above the auditorium door, and realised with a jolt that it was well past eleven o'clock.

"I'm sorry, I... I didn't realise the time." He took her gloved hand, squeezing it apologetically. "Have you been enjoying yourself?"

"As much as I could while you were being monopolised," she told him, pouting slightly. "You haven't even danced with me yet."

"Then that is something which we must rectify immediately." Erik turned his attention to the little orchestra in the pit, hoping that for the next measure they would strike up a waltz for he would be entirely lost with anything else. He almost held his breath as the conductor counted them in, relief flooding him much like a condemned man given a last-minute reprieve when the familiar triple meter strains of that once most scandalous of dances began. Despite that, his heart was beating fit to burst as he led Christine out on to the floor that had been constructed over the stall seats; it was all he could do not to turn and run as she laid her hand on his shoulder and he rested his hesitantly just above her waist. Almost before he was aware of it they were moving, his feet following the steps automatically, the room and the other dancers around them fading into a confused blur.

Much to his surprise, before long his nerves began to abate and he found himself relaxing. The anonymity granted to him by the nature of the gathering was wonderfully liberating; beneath his disguise he could be anyone at all. No one would laugh or call him names, there would be no jeering and, thank God, no screams. For the very first time in his life, Erik started to know how it felt to be normal.

They had taken several turns about the room before he registered that Christine was smiling at him. Though he could only see the lower part of her face her eyes were sparkling behind her mask and she looked positively radiant. As they whirled around there was no sign of the clumsiness she had often displayed as a ballerina; her steps were light and sure, her body swaying gracefully in time with the music. The fact that she was gazing at _him_, at him and no one else with such obvious pleasure almost took his breath away, and the little box in his pocket felt even heavier than before. Could he really dare to ask such a heavenly creature to tie herself to him, to remain at his side for the rest of her days?

"Where did you learn to waltz?" she asked, the sound of her voice once more jolting him from his thoughts. "You are very good at it."

Laughter bubbled up within him and she gave him a curious, puzzled look. "Would you believe this morning?" he replied, and when he told her about Madame Giry and the broken china she was soon laughing too.

"I don't deserve you," Christine said, turning her deep brown eyes, wide and wondering, to meet his. "I do believe that you would do anything for me."

"I would give my life for you, Christine," Erik told her quite seriously. "You have only to ask."

"Oh, Erik." Her smile was soft. "I think I would much rather have you here at my side."

The music ending, they drifted to a halt almost without realising. After the customary polite applause for the orchestra, Erik reluctantly handed Christine back to the sidelines; no matter how much he might wish to hold her all night, he had to abide by convention and allow others to take their turn. It was quite clear from the names scribbled on her fan that her dance card was already full, and why should it not be? A young woman such as she should not lack for partners. Young Gianni approached hopefully; Christine glanced at Erik for approval and he nodded, grateful that the all-encompassing mask relieved him of the need to smile. Unable to bear the sight of her dancing with another man, he left the auditorium, weaving his way through the crowd and heading for the little grotto beneath the grand escallier, a place often used by secretive lovers at such gatherings but thankfully empty at that moment.

Suddenly weary, he sank down on the marble edge of the fountain, glad of the cool and the quiet. The papier mache covering his face was stuffy and suffocating; he removed it to wipe his brow, reflecting that it had been a long time since he last wore a full mask, so long that he had forgotten quite how claustrophobic it could be. He would not like to return to those days. Lazily, he pulled off a glove and dabbled his hand in the water; the spray danced upon his palm, droplets catching the light. A tune sprang into his head, almost fully-formed, and he hummed, turning his hand over and letting the water beat its tattoo upon his wrist.

The sound of a footstep destroyed this momentary idyll, the hard, echoing tap of a high-heeled shoe. Immediately, instinctively, Erik replaced the mask, rising to his feet and turning in one fluid motion to meet this intruder upon his solitude. A woman stood there, wearing the kind of loose, silk negligee favoured by the courtesans which had surrounded the Sun King. It was a costume which might have appeared voluptuous upon someone rather better endowed, but the lady over whose form it was draped could not fill the fabric; it hung from her bony frame like bed sheet, the bodice looking forlorn without a buxom chest to fill it. Her face was covered, naturally, but Erik recognised the pale blonde hair that was curled and bunched around her ears and even before she spoke he knew that it was Augustine Albert. She smiled through lips painted a shocking shade of red, and thrust forward one hip, parting the lilac folds of her nightgown and revealing a surprisingly shapely ankle.

"I knew it was you," she said, thin fingers toying with the coiled ringlet which lay across one shoulder. "No one else has that proud bearing. And I'd know your eyes anywhere, Monsieur le Directeur."

"I would imagine that is because they are so strange," Erik replied, resisting the urge to back away as she took a couple of steps towards him. "Most people's eyes are just one colour."

"You do yourself an injustice. I prefer 'unique'." Augustine smiled again. "I've been looking all over for you. Come and have a dance; we can't have you sitting out here all by yourself while the party's still in full swing."

Now he did move, folding his arms inside the loose sleeves of his robe. "I am quite content with my own company, Mademoiselle," he told her coldly. "I need no one else."

"I'm sure our dear, divine Daae would disagree, though I notice she's not spent much time with you this evening. Only one waltz, when she's been twirling around with half the chorus?" The soprano shook her head, not taking the hint and following as Erik continued to walk backwards; he felt his shoulders hit the wall and realised that he had nowhere else to go. Augustine raised a hand, leaning it casually against the marble beside his head. "I wouldn't let you get away that easily."

Erik cleared his throat. "I think you have entirely misunderstood me, Mademoiselle Albert. The relationship between us is strictly professional."

"You and Christine, or you and me?" she enquired, and immediately continued without waiting for an answer, "It matters little, I enjoy a challenge." She lifted her other arm, so that she was resting both hands on the wall and effectively trapping him with her body. Had a man done such a thing, forced such unwanted contact upon Erik, he would not have lived long enough to discover the consequences, but he found himself balking at the idea of so harming a woman. Perhaps his desire for self-preservation beyond all else had dimmed over the years, or maybe he was just distracted by the patch she had placed upon her chest, drawing the eye towards her heaving bosom; inadequate though it might be in many respects, Erik had never been quite so close to a woman in that way before and her proximity was beginning to make his head spin.

Augustine's blood-red smile grew wider as she realised the effect she was having upon him. Even though his face was covered it must be obvious that he was breathing heavily; perspiration ran down his forehead beneath the mask and his fingers curled into fists as he tried to will himself to remain calm. "Come now," she cooed, stroking his false face, "You can do better than that milksop virgin. You need a real woman, I can tell."

Erik shook his head. "You are mistaken, Mademoiselle," he said hoarsely. "Kindly leave me be and return to the ball."

She laughed. "I don't believe you. Come on, stop being coy. Just one little kiss, and then we'll see if you don't want more. Let me see your face, you don't need to hide from me. Just one little kiss..." Her fingers were curling around the edge of the mask, prying at it, pulling it away...

With a wordless cry Erik shoved her from him, past caring that she was of the weaker sex. He pushed away her wanton, perfumed presence, but it was too late, he could feel the cold air on his distorted cheek and a scream was ringing in his ears.

"Oh my God, what are you? What _are_ you?"

Augustine was sprawled inelegantly on the ground, the golden mask clutched in her vermilion talons, her mouth a round circle of horror and amazement. She stared at him as though she had just seen the Devil, and Erik did the only thing he could: head bowed, one hand clamped to his deformity, he turned and ran.

Somewhere nearby, a clock struck twelve.


	29. Causing A Commotion

**Author's Note:  
**

**Ignea servus Dominus: **My goodness! Thank you so much! I'm very glad you're enjoying the story. :)**  
**

Chapter title comes from a very old Madonna song.

Apologies for the lack of Erik this week; there's a bit of a mess to be cleared up before we can get back to him...

* * *

**CAUSING A COMMOTION**

As the music ended Christine looked around the auditorium, but there was no sign of the tall, stately figure in the black cloak and golden mask.

Seeing her consternation, Gianni's brow furrowed. "Is something the matter, Christine?" he asked gently.

"I... I was looking for Er – Monsieur Claudin," she said, her gaze quickly scanning the faces nearby without success.

Alphonse, dressed as a Viking with improbably huge horns on his helmet, pointed towards the doors that led to the foyer. "I saw him go outside about ten minutes ago. Can't say I blame him; it's a crush in here."

"Of course it is," Marie put in from beneath her medieval wimple. "Anything else would be regarded as a disaster!"

"I should go and find him," Christine said, but before she could make her excuses and slip through the crowd there was the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat from the stage, and her route to the door was suddenly blocked by a press of interested people pushing their way across the dance floor. She had no choice but to move with them, and reluctantly allowed herself to be carried along by the momentum until she was close enough to see the toes of Monsieur Fontaine's outrageous bucket boots. He was meant to be one of Dumas's musketeers, she supposed, and had gone the whole hog with the costume, from his curled wig and plumed hat to the rapier at his side.

"Ladies and gentlemen... Mesdames et Messieurs," he declared with an extravagant bow. "The hour for unmasking is nearly upon us, but before it arrives my partner and I would like to make a small announcement."

Marigny had approached from the wings and joined him in the spotlight that one of the stage crew had doubtless been prevailed upon to provide for this moment. Christine was surprised that any of them were sober enough to oblige; though the stage hands had not been invited to the ball, plenty of free food and alcohol had been provided for their entertainment and they were not known for their restraint. "Indeed," Marigny said. "As you are all no doubt aware, the Opera Populaire is missing two of the jewels in its crown: a Prima Donna and a Primo Uomo to lead the company. It has been our task to find successors to La Carlotta and Signor Piangi worthy of their talent and experience, and our search has been exhaustive."

"It wouldn't be hard to find someone worthy of Carlotta's talent," Meg muttered to Christine.

"However, ladies and gentlemen, that search is now at an end," said Fontaine. "It is my great pleasure to introduce to you all the newest members of the Populaire's company, Mademoiselle Theodora Merriman, and Signor Antonio Rossi!"

There was a burst of polite applause as a small, dainty woman wearing an elegant Henri Deux gown, her auburn hair caught up in a golden net, and a stocky, swarthy gentleman in the guise of a Napoleonic soldier entered from stage left. Christine had heard of American soprano Theodora Merriman; Erik had mentioned the adulation she received in the theatrical press for her recent seasons at the Royal Opera House in London. Apparently, though she looked frail and as though she might blow away in a puff of wind, her voice was quite phenomenal. Signor Rossi was unknown to her, and she turned to ask Erik about him before remembering that he was not at her side.

Fontaine was talking again, his words interspersed with increasingly irritable additions by his colleague, but Christine wasn't really listening any more. She was trying to work out how she might leave the ballroom without upsetting too many people when, above the managers' rambling talk, she heard a strange sound that made her blood run cold. It seemed to come from all around; a horrible cry, a howl of pain and anger. Though it could almost have been made by some great beast, Christine knew the voice behind it; she had heard that cry before and had hoped that she never would again. By the time the scream which followed it rang through the hushed room she was already pushing her way towards the doors, apologising absently if she stood on toes or elbowed ribs, desperate to reach the owner of the voice, the one who sounded so anguished, just as he had done a year ago, that terrible morning deep below the theatre. Behind her she heard Meg call her name, and in front the scream had drawn others towards the foyer, people who had no idea what they would find there.

The chimes of midnight were ending as she reached the stairs and hurried down them, skirts held high and feet slipping on the cold marble in her thin shoes. Her heels made an ugly clattering sound; she stumbled to the foot of the staircase just as a hunched form in black robes emerged from the grotto, fleeing as though there were wolves at his heels. Christine barely had time to register the hand that he clutched to his face, or that his hat was missing, before he had passed her, running on unsteady legs into the darkened passageways that led to the heart of the building, desperate to get away.

"Erik!" she shouted after him. "Erik, _wait_!"

It was too late, he was gone, and she couldn't follow, once again surrounded by a press of bodies, interested onlookers who had come to gawk. Somehow, Meg was there, having pushed her way to the front; her dress had been crushed and her bonnet was askew.

"Christine," she said quietly, nodding, and Christine followed her gaze to see a female figure walking slowly from the grotto. She looked dazed, her face uncovered and hair awry; it was Augustine Albert, and in her hand was a blank gold mask. Almost before she realised what she was doing, Christine had run across the floor and grabbed the other woman by the shoulders; Augustine barely reacted to the assault, turning vague green eyes towards her.

"What did you do?" Christine demanded, her anxiety making her frantic. She shook the other soprano with strength she hadn't even realised she possessed, enough to make Augustine's head wobble. "What did you do to him? Why did you take his mask?"

"I just wanted to see," Augustine murmured. "Just wanted to see... thought he would be so handsome..." Her eyes widened, and she reached up, desperately grasping Christine's arm. "Mother of God... he's a monster. Hideous! That face... How can you bear to touch him?"

The sharp percussive sound of a slap echoed through the marble hall. Christine slowly drew back her hand, flesh smarting from the force of the blow. Augustine fingered her stinging cheek, staring at her colleague in astonishment. The contact seemed to bring her back to reality.

"You... How _dare_ you?" she hissed, eyes flashing daggers at Christine. With disconcerting abruptness she leapt towards her assailant, only to be grabbed from behind by Alphonse, his comically oversized helmet looking ludicrous in the midst of what had become a very serious situation.

"I think that's enough," he said quietly, but Augustine wrenched herself from his grip, flinging herself at Christine in an inelegant reprise of the fight between Alphonse and Marius two days before. Startled, Christine raised her hand again, determined to defend herself, but before she could get near the baritone caught hold of Augustine once more with assistance from a white-faced Gianni. Strong fingers grasped Christine's wrist and she glanced round, her heart lifting for a moment before she realised that the firm grip belonged not to her unhappy Angel but to Madame Giry.

"That _is_ enough," the ballet mistress said. "Christine, control yourself; you know better than this."

"But, Madame - " Christine began, only to be cut off by a cry from Augustine. The other soprano pointed a spindly finger, the nail garishly adorned with brilliant red enamel, at them both.

"She knew! She must have known! That... that _thing_ is her cousin!" she shrieked. "She _knew_ we were harbouring a monster in our midst!"

Alphonse's face creased in a confused frown. "Augustine, what the devil are you talking about?"

"Ask her!" Augustine nodded fiercely. "Ask her what he hides beneath that mask!"

Madame Giry met the singer's accusing stare with a cold one of her own. "That is no one's business but Monsieur Claudin's. It is you who have done him an injury by invading his privacy," she said. "I can see that you are yet another who would shun a man because of his appearance."

Augustine's head tipped back as she gave a harsh, hysterical laugh. "His appearance? Only a mother could love a face such as that!"

How wrong she was, Christine thought as there were more footsteps on the stairs, heavier this time, and the crowd of onlookers parted to allow the managers through. Under different circumstances she might have laughed herself at the ridiculous figures they cut in their fancy dress, accompanied by a man she guessed was the Populaire's new patron, a fat figure in a toga and laurel wreath whose fondness for fine living was beginning to show on his face.

"What on earth is going on here?" Marigny demanded. "Madame Giry?"

"It is nothing, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Albert has had a little too much to drink," the ballet mistress said smoothly. She glanced towards Alphonse. "Will you see that she gets home safely?"

The baritone nodded, and with Gianni's help turned the dishevelled soprano towards the doors. "Come along, Augustine. I think you need to lie down."

"Not with you," she told him, allowing him to lead her away. Before they stepped outside she looked back. "It will do this place no good, having a demon under our roof! He'll bring us bad luck!"

"As if anything could bring us worse luck than we've had lately," Marius remarked to no one in particular from his vantage point, lounging by the statue of Gluck in the corner with a bottle in his hand.

"Mademoiselle Daae I am surprised at you," Marigny said, giving her a hard stare, "Brawling with another member of the cast in public! I hope this will not happen again."

Christine stared at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. "It will not, Monsieur. It was... a misunderstanding."

"See that it does not. We cannot have our employees – our female employees! – fighting in the halls. Where will it end?"

Fontaine chuckled, and then gave a hiccup. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps we could sell tickets; the set from the Jockey Club would snap them up, eh, Monsieur le Marquis?"

"Tempting as it would be, I think that we would be better served by keeping the nature of the entertainment on a slightly higher cultural level," de Borges said. Christine raised her head, and did not miss the wink the old roué sent in her direction. He made his way down the remainder of the stairs and made her a surprisingly elegant bow given his bulk. "Your servant, Mademoiselle Daae. I have been an admirer of yours ever since I heard you sing Elissa. Your Gilda last night was a tour de force."

Caught off guard and blushing furiously Christine dropped a clumsy curtsy. "Thank you, Monsieur. You are very kind."

"I speak only the truth," he told her. "Now, where is that chorus master? I would like to continue our discussion; the fellow seems to know more about opera than anyone I have ever met, and his views on the great composers in general..! He was your teacher, I believe?"

Erik! She had all but forgotten her intention to follow him in the chaos. "Indeed, Monsieur, but you must excuse me; he is not well and I should go to him," she said hurriedly. "I fear your conversation will have to wait for another time."

"Of course, of course," the marquis said with a wave of his hand. "When you find him, tell him I would be very glad to hear his opinion of this Tchaikovsky fellow."

Christine nodded, breathlessly thanking him. Gathering her skirts she all but ran from the foyer, Madame Giry following at a more sedate pace. By the time they reached Christine's dressing room, and the only entrance to the cellars she knew well enough to negotiate without Erik's assistance, Meg had rejoined them.

"I've looked all over," she reported. "There's no sign of him anywhere."

Christine had not even noticed her friend's absence. Before she could speak, Madame Giry said, "He will have gone to ground. There is only once place in which he feels safe and secure, but I would not like to guess at what kind of state he will be in after this."

"I think I know." Christine's gaze dropped to the floor once more as the shame she had felt after removing Erik's mask welled up once again. She knew that if she closed her eyes she would see his tortured face, the rage draining away to reveal a terrible mixture of hurt and confusion.

"Christine." Madame crouched down, touching her arm. "Are you sure you want to do this? He may not be himself... if you wish me to face him instead I will. I do not wish to see you hurt."

"No. No, he needs me," Christine said firmly, looking up to meet the ballet mistress's concerned dark eyes. "I won't abandon him."

After a moment, Madame Giry nodded. "Very well." She stepped back, allowing Christine to approach the mirror and trigger the switch which turned it upon its pivot, opening the entrance to Erik's hidden realm.

It was time to go down once more and beard the wounded lion in his den.


	30. Devil's Disguise, Angel in Black

**Author's Note:  
**

****This week's chapter title comes from the Fleetwood Mac track _Behind the Mask_.

* * *

**DEVIL'S DISGUISE, ANGEL IN BLACK**

The sobs could be heard before they reached the house, echoing around the cavern, taken and bounced back and forth until they sounded quite eerie, as though some unearthly creature were weeping in the shadows. An involuntary shiver ran down Christine's spine and she shook herself angrily. It was foolish to entertain such fancies; there were no ghosts here and there never had been. The Opera had been haunted by nothing more than a man, and that man's pain now filled the air, his terrible, beautiful voice drawing them to him and entangling them in his misery.

"That noise... it _is_ just Erik, isn't it?" Meg asked tremulously, her hand gripping Christine's sleeve.

Madame Giry's tongue clucked irritably. "Of course, you foolish child. Who else would it be?"

"I don't know. It's just... I've never heard him like that before."

"I have," Christine said, exchanging a glance with Madame, "and I wish to God I never had. I hurt him so much..."

"What's done is done, Christine," the ballet mistress told her. "We cannot change the past."

Meg turned wide eyes on her friend. "Christine..." She paused before continuing, as though afraid to ask the question, "What... what did you do?"

Christine realised that she had never told Meg about her transgression, about that moment when, unable to contain her curiosity about the mysterious, seductive figure that had appeared in her dressing room mirror and taken her to his underground realm, she shattered the illusion that had sustained them both for nearly five years. "I found out his secret," she said, tears prickling in her own eyes as she remembered wandering through the house looking for her strange host and finding him in the music room. He sat before what appeared to her astonishment to be a church organ, its pipes climbing the far wall, his long white fingers moving deftly over the keys; the music he produced was peculiar, discordant, quite unlike anything she had ever heard. After a few moments he stopped, drawing a folio towards him and scribbling furiously; on tiptoe she crept up behind him and watched as he worked, his pen skipping across the manuscript paper, the notes apparently just flowing from him onto the page. Entirely wrapped up in his masterpiece, Erik had not even noticed her presence in the room and was completely unprepared when, after a few near misses that were almost like a bizarre game of hide and seek, she reached out and tore away his mask, revealing the horror beneath... Christine shook her head. "If only I had controlled myself, things might have been so different. I can still see his eyes, the way he looked at me when his anger was spent. I've never seen eyes so sad. It was as though he was bearing all the sorrows of the world."

"Don't blame yourself," Madame Giry said softly before Meg could speak. "I told him many times that he had to bring the deception to an end, to show you properly who he was. It was quite natural that you would be curious."

"I should have waited, not ripped away his defences," Christine countered.

"There was no way that you could have known what the mask represented. You wished to see your Angel's face, as he must have known you would." Madame sighed. "I have no idea exactly what he had planned to do after bringing you down here. Perhaps he didn't really know himself."

Another cry rent the air, reminding them of their purpose in the cellars. As Madame Giry raised the lantern Christine dug in the velvet evening bag that dangled from her wrist for the key to the front door. The lamplight revealed a dark line in the wall, the almost hidden entrance to the subterranean house; Christine inserted the key into the lock but she had no need to turn it for at a touch the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. Beyond it the hallway was shrouded in darkness but the telltale crunch of broken glass under her feet was eloquent enough. The only illumination came from a thin sliver of light beneath the door of the library; it was from here that the weeping came, louder now and very obviously human. It came as no surprise that Erik had taken refuge in the one place he felt safe: amongst his beloved books and instruments.

Cautiously, their steps light and almost soundless on the thick carpets, the three women entered the room. It was a mess, furniture overturned, papers strewn across the Persian rugs and torn into confetti; a lamp had been smashed, its body lying crookedly in the empty fireplace surrounded by the shattered green glass of its ornate shade. Before the grate huddled a pitiful figure in black and gold robes, one that had been so majestic and assured barely an hour ago but which now resembled nothing so much as a discarded bundle of washing. His shoulders heaved with each rough breath, hands clawing at his face, at the hated deformity; Christine could barely restrain a gasp as she realised that the darkness that ran between his fingers was not shadow but blood.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, making her jump. His voice was harsh, almost unrecognisable. "Why did you allow it? Why did you allow me to know for one blissful moment how it actually feels to be normal? Why did you show me the light only to snatch it away, to remind me of what I truly am?"

Christine opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again when Erik raised a fist, shaking it at something or someone only he could see.

"What was it, eh? Was the monster getting above himself? Did you have to push him back down into the dirt? _Did you_?" The question rose into a cry, its volume increasing into a keening wail which only died away when, as though some invisible string had been cut, his hand fell back to his side and he slumped forwards, his forehead almost resting on his bent knees. His next words were so quiet she almost missed them. He sounded impossibly weary. "Have you not tormented me enough?"

Madame Giry stepped forwards but Christine shook her head, gesturing for them to remain by the door. Meg nodded, eyes wide and frightened, casting glances towards the crumpled form of the Phantom as though she could not bear to look away. Madame's lips were clamped in a thin line but she allowed Christine to do as she wished and set down the lantern upon a nearby table that had remained upright. Its glow did much to assist the feeble light of the single candle that flickered on the piano as Christine carefully picked her way towards the fireplace. She moved slowly, knowing that Erik could become a raging fury with very little provocation, and awkwardly crouched down beside him, hampered by her skirts and train.

"Erik," she said softly, trying to catch his eye. "Erik, it's me, it's Christine. It's all right; you don't have to hide from me, my Angel."

"Go away." The words were muffled, cracked by tears.

"Erik, please don't - "

"I _said_ go away," he repeated. "Leave the monster be."

"You're not a monster, Erik," Christine told him, and it took all of her strength not to flinch away when his head suddenly whipped round like a viper about to strike and his face, undamaged features twisted in fury and only making the distortion look even worse, was inches away from hers. His teeth were bared in a snarl, the nostril on the complete side of his nose flaring like a dragon's, and the rage that burnt in his mismatched eyes almost made her heart stop. Blood, that she could now see came from several cuts to the palm of his right hand, was smeared all over his deformity. It was a truly dreadful sight.

"Really?" he enquired, head on one side as he considered her reaction. "Oh, but of course! I'm a handsome devil aren't I, Christine? I have a beauty all my own!" He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. "How proud you must be to have made such a catch, to have snared a creature such as me!"

"I love you just the way you are," she said, determined not to give him what he wanted and turn away. Reaching out, she pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. "Your beauty is in here."

"I fear others would not agree with you." Erik's wild gaze found the Girys hovering in the darkness. He swept out an arm and gave a theatrical bow. "Come in, Madame, come in, I make no charge for those who wish to stare at the freak. By all means, come and feast your eyes upon my accursed ugliness! I am a horror, Little Meg, am I not?"

Meg took a step backwards, hands raised as though to ward him away. "No," she mumbled, "No, please - "

"Erik, stop!" Christine cried, but he took no notice, leering at her friend's discomfort, a dark, mad chuckle in this throat.

"I'll wager you've never in your life seen a creature like me," he said, climbing unsteadily to his feet. "Why don't you come and take a closer look? Come on, don't be shy: the Living Corpse will share his kiss of death with you!"

"No!" Meg closed her eyes, retreating behind Madame Giry, who seemed momentarily paralysed, torn between rushing to the unstable man's side and protecting her daughter. "No, Erik, please don't!"

"Erik, _enough_!" Before the ballet mistress could move Christine grabbed his arm, pulling him back down beside her on the rug. He gave a wordless growl, trying to throw her off but she held on tight, somehow forcing him to his knees despite his superior strength. Capturing his face between her hands she stared him deep in the eyes; his breath came in great gasps, chest hitching with each one and matching the furious beating of her own heart. Slowly, gradually, the anger began to fade, leaving behind only confusion as tears began to pool once more and he caught his trembling lower lip between his teeth, desperate not to let them fall. "You don't have to do this," she told him, keeping her voice soft and even. "You are not that person any more."

"The world believes that I am," he whispered. "They will never change. How can I fight against nature?"

"I will help you," Christine promised. "It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks."

"Sweet, naive Christine." Erik lifted a hand, stroking her cheek with one long, thin finger. "How I wish that were true."

"It _is_ true," she insisted. He shook his head, closing his eyes. "You cannot let the prejudice of one person destroy everything you have accomplished."

"Don't you see, my darling girl? It is too late; the damage has already been done." A single tear rolled down the deformed side of his face, its journey tracing the lumps and crevices. "I can never go up there again."

A hoarse sob broke from his chest and without another word Christine gathered him to her, enfolding him in her arms as he wept into her shoulder like a child. "It's all right, it's all right," she murmured, rocking him gently and running one hand over his hair as though she were petting a frightened bird. Glancing up she met Madame Giry's gaze; concern was writ large upon the older woman's normally stern features. She raised her eyebrows in an obvious question; Christine shook her head, returning her attention to Erik. He was calming down now, sobs fading into hiccups, his fingers gripping the expensive fabric of her dress as though he feared to let her go in case she disappeared. They sat there quietly on the hearthrug for some time, Christine ignoring the protests made by her legs and back as she continued to awkwardly hold him, happy to allow him to take comfort from her embrace. Behind her she heard the door gently close and knew that the Girys had left them alone.

"I... I'm sorry," Erik said eventually.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Christine told him. "It wasn't your fault."

"I've made a fool of myself again." He took a deep breath which turned into a gulp. "Poor Little Meg... It seems I am always having to apologise to her."

"She will understand."

"All of you spend so much time and effort understanding... why do you tolerate me when all I do is cause you trouble?" It was a genuine question, and Christine pulled back slightly so that she could see his face. Despite its current bloody mess, some of which she realised had rubbed off on her gown and probably ruined it completely, he did look completely bewildered. Deliberately she bent her head and touched her lips to his.

"Do I really have to explain it to you?" she asked. They held each other's gaze for a long moment, and then he shook his head. Christine kissed his mangled forehead. "Good. Now, let's get you cleaned up."

She went to fetch bandages and iodine; when she returned he had not moved, but was sitting cross-legged before the fireplace, staring into the empty grate at the remains of the lamp. Christine thought she saw something, a small square box, in his palm before he realised she was there and it vanished into the folds of his black cloak. Kneeling down on the rug before him she held out her hand; after a beat he put his damaged one into hers as dispassionately as a horse presenting its foot to the farrier. Gently she examined the wounds, several shallow gashes that looked painful; some still contained shards of green glass which she delicately removed with the tweezers she had found in the bathroom. Erik made no sound throughout, not even when she dabbed the cuts with antiseptic, though it was obvious to her how much it hurt; she could feel his pulse quicken and his minute flinch at the sting of the iodine. With practise gained from assisting Madame Giry in changing the dressings upon his injured shoulder she bound up his hand in white linen and turned her attention to the blood drying upon his face. A soft sigh escaped him as she washed away the gore, careful of the paper-thin skin that covered the distorted bone and muscle, her touch feather-light.

"What did she do, Erik?" Christine asked quietly, dropping the cloth into a bowl of water which was now a rusty red. "Augustine, I mean. Why did she take your mask?"

"For the same reason as everyone else: she wanted to see what lies beneath." He looked at her. "Just as you did."

She felt her cheeks grow hot. "I was young and foolish and too curious for my own good. Augustine Albert does not have that excuse, so why did she do it?"

"I think..." Erik turned his face away, flushing himself in evident embarrassment. "I think she wanted to... kiss me," he said, his voice so low that Christine almost didn't catch the words. "I have no idea why."

"Oh, Erik." She smiled sadly. "Is it so hard to believe that someone would find you attractive?"

"How can I when all that ever follows is a scream?" he asked, squeezing his eyes shut. "Dear God, those screams... I can always hear them, even after so many years. They seem to haunt my very existence."

"Not any more. You don't have to think of them any more." Christine leaned in towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek to his ravaged one. "I'm here."

For a moment he seemed frozen, but then, quick enough to almost take her breath away, he pulled her to him, burying his face in her curls. "Sometimes I'm frightened," he whispered, "frightened that I'll wake up and you'll be gone, that I'll be alone again."

"I'll never leave you alone," she promised, and he just held her tighter.

"If you did it would be the end of me." There was a pause, and then he said hesitantly, "Christine, I – "

Whatever he had intended to follow those words was unfortunately lost as Christine felt her balance begin to tip; standing upon her knees and leaning against him she was unable to stop herself as she started to lurch forwards, taking Erik with her. They tumbled to the floor and she heard a loud ripping noise from the skirts which had been bunched beneath her; she landed sprawled across Erik's chest, their faces so close that their noses were almost touching. Impulsively she rubbed hers against his twisted one and grinned.

"I've never been able to do that before," she said, and did it again just because she could.

Erik stared at her in helpless confusion. "Why would you - "

"Eskimo kiss," she told him, and to her relief he burst out laughing, the tension that had been in the air ever since she entered the library evaporating. "I think I've completely destroyed this dress."

"I'll buy you another. Anything you desire, Christine, you know it's yours. The best gowns, food, wine... just say the word and Erik will get it for you," he said, brushing back a wayward curl that had become stuck to her cheek.

Christine shook her head. "I don't need all that. All I really want is you, and I have you here right now." He opened his mouth to protest, but she rested a finger lightly against his lips, silencing him. "We are going to forget about Augustine Albert and what happened tonight. She is just one person, hardly even worth noticing; she doesn't matter. For the next production you can hide her away in the back row of the chorus. Agreed?"

He nodded, and when she allowed him to speak again said wonderingly, "My Christine. When did you become so strong?"

"When I thought I was going to lose you. I think I learnt to fight there and then." She rested her head on his shoulder, and his arm snaked around her waist. "I'll always fight for you."

They lay there for what seemed like hours, just listening to one another's breathing, before Erik eventually said, "I suppose we should move. Goodness knows what Antoinette would think if she came back." Christine giggled as they reluctantly righted themselves and he tried to brush away the scraps of paper that were clinging to what remained of her dress. He looked up at her, eyes serious. "Christine, there is something - "

"What's that?" she asked, attention caught by the large cream envelope that was lying amid the scores and books on his desk. It looked official, the address typed rather than written and the corner franked.

"Annie brought it this morning. It's not important. Christine - "

"It looks important to me. Maybe you should open it." She climbed to her feet, barely hearing the groan of frustration Erik made behind her, and picked the letter up, holding it out to him. He refused to take it. "All right, then,_ I'll_ open it."

He waved a hand, which she took to be acquiescence, and so, finding a wickedly sharp letter opener in the form of a dagger under a sheaf of manuscript paper, she neatly slit the envelope and withdrew the two folded sheets within. Her mouth fell open in shock as she read the few lines typed upon the topmost, and quickly pulled out the one underneath, eyes scanning the page. As she read to the bottom she felt herself begin to cry and had to cover her mouth with one trembling hand.

"Christine? Christine, are you all right?" Erik was suddenly at her side, peering down at her in concern. "Whatever is the matter?"

Wordlessly she held out the papers to him; he took them with a frown, a frown which gradually cleared into astonishment as he took in the enormity of what was stated there in black and white. "Mon Dieu," he murmured. "I never imagined... I thought they tried to erase all record of my existence. My mother claimed she told everyone that I had been stillborn, that they had not even bothered to name me."

"She lied," said Christine. "They registered you after all." She smiled through her tears. "You have a birthday, Erik; you were born on St Valentine's Day."

"Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin." As he read his fingers traced the words. "Son of Charles Etienne Claudin and Angelique Jeanette Claudin, née Aubusson. Born on the fourteenth of February..."

"You really are an angel," she told him.

A slightly hysterical laugh broke from him. "I suppose I am." He looked at the letter again and then back at her. "I'm two years older than I thought."

"What does that matter? You have proof of who you are. You don't have to be a Phantom any longer."

Erik had to sit down. Unfortunately he tried to do so without a chair; hurriedly Christine grabbed his arm and steered him towards the sofa, which alone had remained upright during his earlier rage. For some time he did not speak, just sat there staring at the paper upon which his identity was written. It was evidently a transcript of the record book from the parish in which he had been born and she couldn't help wondering where it had come from; though the covering letter was addressed to Monsieur Claudin, she could not believe that Erik had gone enquiring into his origins himself.

"It was Antoinette," he said, apparently reading her thoughts. "I couldn't remember the exact name of the place where I was born; I doubt if I ever knew it. She must have written to every town and city in Normandy to find me." Before she could reply, he took a deep breath and continued, "Christine, there is something I need to ask you, and now seems as good a time as any since for the first time in my life I truly have a name to offer."

Christine's heart was in her mouth as she watched him reach into his black robes and withdraw that little velvet box she had seen earlier. Getting to his feet, he held it out to her, that hopeful expression she remembered from the day he presented her with the roses only more endearing now that she could see his whole face.

"I know this is not as romantic as it would have been had I been able to propose to you as I planned, at the ball, but..." Erik dropped to one knee, opening the box to reveal the most beautiful ring she had ever seen nestled within upon a bed of white silk. "Christine Daae, will you marry me?"

Throat constricted by surprise and emotion, Christine could only breathe one word.

"Yes."


	31. Good News And Bad

**Author's Note:  
**

Thank you once again for all your lovely reviews!

**icanhearthedrums**: Updates are usually first thing Friday morning (UK time). I try to post before I go to work. :)

* * *

**GOOD NEWS...AND BAD**

"Christine! Where in the world have you been hiding?"

Meg flew across the stage as soon as Christine, self-conscious of the ring on her finger, climbed the steps. At the sound of her shriek several people turned to look, Madame Giry among them; thankfully Augustine Albert was conspicuous by her absence, but there were still mutterings and Christine could feel eyes on her from all angles as she approached her friend. She did her best to hold her head high, trying to ignore the burning sensation of multiple gazes on her back.

"It was Sunday, Meg," she said, pleased with herself when her voice emerged calmly with barely a wobble. "Where do you think I was?"

"Don't try and tell me you were at home, because I checked," the little ballerina told her; Christine made shushing movements with her hands, glancing around at the members of the company who were watching them with undisguised interest, and all but dragged Meg towards the wings. "Remember I was there; I saw it all. _What happened_?"

"If I tell you, will you promise not to scream?"

Meg's eyes were almost round. "You don't mean - "

Wordlessly, Christine held out her left hand. The diamond caught the light and Meg had to clap both hands over her mouth to stifle her instinctive squeal. When she trusted herself to remove them she grabbed Christine's fingers, turning them this way and that to better examine the ring, and said breathlessly,

"He actually asked you? After everything on Saturday night? After all that he - "

Christine nodded. "It wasn't exactly a conventional proposal."

"Right." Looking back and forth to check if there was any chance they would be overheard, Meg folded her arms and adopted her best listening expression. "Go on: tell me _everything_."

* * *

_He hadn't heard her._

_As the silence seemed to stretch on interminably, Erik's face crumpled in disappointment. He hung his head, staring at the intricately-patterned rug upon which he knelt. _

"_I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I'm so sorry. Forgive me; I should never have asked. Why should you wish to tie yourself to something like me, to live in the darkness? I understand completely." His long fingers folded over the ring box. "We will never speak of it again."_

_Seeing that if she did not do something quickly the ring would vanish, Christine leapt forwards, catching hold of Erik's arm. "Wait!" she cried desperately, and he frowned at her in confusion. "I said yes, Erik. I said _yes_."_

_He blinked slowly, unable to take in the enormity of her words. "Yes?" he repeated, as though she addressed him in a foreign tongue._

_Smiling, she nodded. "Yes."_

"_My God. You said yes?" he asked, eyes wide and incredulous. He looked so much like a child that she could not help but laugh. _

"_Yes, Erik," she told him, "I said yes."_

"_I never dared to hope..." Frozen, he gazed at her in amazement. Eventually Christine pointed to the little velvet box._

"_Is that for me?" she asked lightly._

_Erik started as though awoken from a trance. She held out her left hand to him and he withdrew the ring from its satin bed, slipping it onto her finger with infinite care. For a moment they both admired the way in which the stones, a diamond and two rubies, sparkled in the lamplight like tiny stars before Christine suddenly found herself in Erik's arms, being pulled to her feet. She was about to speak, but before she could open her mouth he threw back his head, shouting to the ceiling, and from there to the world above, _

"_She said yes! Do you hear that? She has accepted me!" There was triumph in his tone and when he looked down at her his ravaged face was lit with the first smile of genuine happiness that she had ever seen there. His mismatched eyes were soft, brimming with tears that this time did not fall. "Oh, Christine," he said, "You have made Erik the happiest man alive."_

"_Then I must be the happiest woman," she returned, winding her arms about his neck and standing on tiptoe to kiss him. _

_He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, gazing into her eyes. "I don't know how you do it," he told her, his wonderful voice thick with emotion, "but you have accomplished something that no one else has ever done. You... you make me feel human. I had despaired of ever knowing what it would be like, to feel as other men do. To be loved..."_

_She tried to form an answer, but the right words would not come. Settling instead on actions that would speak louder than any pretty sentiments she might imagine, she just held him tightly, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he stroked her hair. Freed from its elaborate pinning, it tumbled down her back in a wild mass; Erik wound a curl around his finger and whispered,_

"_When we are wed, never wear your hair up as other matrons do. You are too young... I want to see you always like this; wild and beautiful."_

"_Do you want to see me in a ruined dress as well?" she asked, surprising herself with her flirtatiousness. _

_He laughed. "Who would not when you wear it so... decorously?" he asked with a flick of his one perfect eyebrow. "What a pair we must make, you and I. Like something from a Perrault tale."_

"_Those tales have happy endings. I am thankful we bear no resemblance to anything written by the Brothers Grimm." Christine rested her head against his chest. "I do sometimes feel like Cinderella."_

"_Hardly an apt comparison, my dear. After all, I am the one sleeping in a cellar," Erik said, amused. "I was thinking more of _Beau_ - "_

_She stiffened, looking up at him. "Don't you dare say it. Don't you dare say that you were thinking of _Beauty and the Beast_. This is nothing like that story."_

"_That is true." His lip curled slightly. "Kissing me will not bring forth a handsome prince."_

"_I never wanted it to," Christine told him seriously. "I could have had my prince, but I turned him down. Does that not tell you something?"_

_He sighed, turning his gaze to the floor. "Forgive me. I have had a low opinion of myself for so long... it is hard to change such thoughts when they have been close companions for most of my life."_

"_Your _life _is going to change now. You must banish such thoughts."_

"_I will try." He raised his head slowly to offer her a slightly shaky smile. "With you to help me, I promise I will try."_

* * *

"_May I have this dance, Mademoiselle?" He bowed deeply, holding out his bandaged hand. A battered, dishevelled suitor now, he was still elegance personified._

_Christine regarded him, baffled. "A dance, Monsieur? But there is no music!"_

"_I shall be the music," he declared, thumping his chest theatrically. "I was denied my second waltz with you at the ball; I claim it now, from my fiancée." As the last word left his lips, he smiled, mouthing it again in positive glee._

_Her own mouth quirked in an answering smile and she put her hand into his, careful of his wounds. "In that case, sir, I accept," she said. "I will dance every dance with you if you wish it."_

"_Ah, but we must not be too particular, must we?" Erik took the lead, moving to a tune only he could hear; somehow the path they took through the wrecked room managed to avoid any dangerous obstacles. He was sure-footed, confident; he could have been a dancer, Christine thought. She had never seen anyone move the way he did, with such natural grace; he almost seemed to glide, his steps making no sound upon the floor._

"_Did Madame tell you that?" she asked, imagining the conversation that must have ensued when Erik told the ballet mistress of his intentions._

_He was humming, but broke off to answer her. "She believed I needed educating with regards to social niceties."_

"_Well," said Christine, "_I _believe that once one is an engaged person it is quite acceptable to dance all evening with one's intended."_

_Erik raised his eyebrow. "Is that what convention dictates?"_

_She shrugged. "Do we need convention here? This is _our_ world, and we can make the rules."_

"'_Our world'?"_

"_When I accepted you I accepted all of this as well," she told him. "Your world is my world now."_

_He said nothing in response, but the humming became singing; there were no words, his voice carried the tune as it rose and fell with the timing of the dance, a single instrument taking the part of an orchestra and triumphantly succeeding. They whirled around the room; Christine expected to trip over the ripped hem of her dress, but following Erik's assured lead her steps were as light as his. If he had taken her dancing under his tutelage as well as her voice, she reflected, she might have been a prima ballerina; his touch was like magic, alchemy, transforming base material into gold._

_She turned her face to his and couldn't contain the laughter that bubbled up within her at the sight of that silly, lopsided smile on his contradictory features. He gave her a quizzical look and she shook her head. "It's nothing," she said. "I've just never seen you happy before."_

"_I've never truly had a reason to _be_ happy before."_

"_I don't recognise that piece," she remarked as they took another turn past the fireplace. "Did you compose it?"_

"_I am composing it as we speak," he replied, "and I will send it to my publisher as soon as it is finished. Perhaps that is all I will write from now on, works celebrating the glory and wonder of love."_

_Christine rested her head against his chest as they slowed to a gentle sway. "I like the sound of that."_

* * *

"Oh, Christine. I'm so happy for you," Meg said, reaching out and pulling her friend into an enthusiastic hug.

"Indeed. Congratulations, my dear." Madame Giry's voice from behind made both girls jump. Lips twitching, the ballet mistress added, "You showed great strength and maturity in dealing with him yesterday; your presence calms him as nothing else could. I am proud of you."

Christine blinked in surprise. "Thank you, Madame."

"Where _is_ Erik?" Meg glanced around, at the little groups of cast and crew who stood chatting. There was no sign of the former Phantom. "I thought that Mademoiselle Merriman and Signor Rossi were joining us today, and I'm sure he wouldn't miss that."

"He said he'd meet me here," Christine said, frowning. It had taken a lot for Erik to summon the courage to leave the underground house in the face of the rumour and gossip that would doubtless by flying about the building but she could not believe that he had holed himself up in his lair, refusing to rejoin the world, after all that they had gone through the previous day. "That was half an hour ago."

Madame Giry cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I believe he has been summoned to the managers' office." When the two gave her blank looks she withdrew a folded newspaper from behind her back, handing it to Christine. "I take it that you have not seen the front page of _Le Figaro_."

Alphonse was suddenly there, Gianni with him, Marie hovering at Madame's elbow. They had approached with barely a sound, and all looked unhappy. "We're sorry, Christine," Alphonse said, and the others nodded. "It was that bastard Béringer; we tried to tell him it was all nonsense but he chose to listen to Augustine."

"Lying little harpy," Marie snapped, dark little eyes flashing. "We all know exactly what she's like; I wouldn't believe her if she told me Monday followed Sunday."

"We did our best to limit the damage," added Gianni.

Puzzled, Christine took the paper and scanned the columns, Meg peering over her shoulder. Beneath a piece about the lack of funds for the army and another on the threat of a dockers' strike, she found it:

MONSTROUS MAESTRO OF THE OPERA POPULAIRE

_Could Erik Claudin, the man with half a face, really be the fabled Phantom of the Opera?_

Christine heard a cry which sounded like her own, but from so far away. Meg was talking quickly to her mother, voice garbled as though she were underwater. The newspaper fell from Christine's nerveless hands, someone shouted her name, and the next moment she was rushing down a long tunnel as the greying walls closed in on her. There was a whooshing in her ears and then, as if unseen hands had dropped a heavy stage curtain, everything went black.


	32. On The Carpet

**ON THE CARPET**

Erik stood outside the managers' office, staring almost transfixed at the wooden panelling of the door. He'd never actually entered the room this way; all his previous visits had been through a secret entrance behind the bookcase, flitting in to leave his notes or remove scores he deemed inappropriate for performance. Once he'd even rummaged through Lefevre's waste paper basket in search of the damning reviews of a particular show that the man had just discarded; when Lefevre returned he found the journalist's remarks scrawled across his blotter in red ink, Erik's own opinions, largely in agreement, beside them. No review had been ignored after that, however bad.

One of the runners had come to him with the summons as he made his way down the corridor towards the wings. The note was short and to the point and he could not have refused if he valued his position within the theatre; had he not a life to make and a future wife to support he might have vanished there and then and left the Opera to its own devices, but much as he detested the thought he had need of the job Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine were offering and he could not afford to ignore their request that he attend them in their office at his earliest convenience. At least, he reflected, slowly climbing the stairs to the administrative wing, speaking with them would hold off the moment when he had to face the rest of the company in the wake of Saturday's disaster.

"Enter." The response to his knock was curt; Erik opened the door to find both managers within, Marigny seated behind the desk and Fontaine standing by the window, cigar in hand. The latter turned slightly, offering an encouraging smile. There was a newspaper on the desk, folded to highlight a particular report; as Marigny waved him to a chair Erik was able to read, upside down, the headline at the top of the column and his fingers clenched involuntarily, his jaw stiffening. So Augustine Albert had gone to the press...

"I am sorry to have had to ask you here for reasons contrary than those we originally intended," Marigny said. He deliberately turned the newspaper to that Erik could see it properly. "This morning's _Figaro_. I assume from your expression that you had not seen it."

"No, Monsieur, I had not. Saturday night was rather... distressing for me." Erik hesitated, disinclined to elaborate unless he had no choice. "I did not leave my home until I came to the theatre half an hour ago."

"Can you throw any light on Mademoiselle Albert's allegations? She claims that... well, not to put too fine a point on it she says that you attacked her, forced her to look upon your face, which she found – forgive me – hideous to behold." Marigny cleared his throat uncomfortably.

Fontaine moved from the window, coming to stand behind his colleague. "Claudin, we are in no way ready to believe this without hearing your own account of the situation," he said, for once entirely serious.

"I am grateful for that, Monsieur." Erik found himself unable to look at either of them, ashamed of the compassion he could read in Fontaine's eyes and the suspicion that lurked in Marigny's. He turned his gaze towards his shoes, noticing the scuff marks in the polish from his trek through the tunnels and resisting the urge to dust them off with his handkerchief. He took a deep breath. "The truth is, Messieurs, that Mademoiselle Albert forced herself upon _me_. Like many woman I have encountered over the years she was curious about my mask; when I tried to repulse her, she pulled it off. She was... unprepared for what she found beneath."

The room was suddenly unbearably hot, he wanted to tug at his collar for respite but his fingers trembled; he had never spoken to anyone about his face but Christine and Antoinette. When a hand gently landed upon his shoulder he almost shot from the chair to grab its owner by the throat but stopped himself just in time; glancing up in surprise he found that he was looking straight at Olivier Fontaine. The man's nose had the rosy hue of the heavy drinker, and there were broken veins in his cheeks, but his expression was sympathetic.

"It is not our intention to judge you, Claudin," he said quietly, throwing a pointed look towards his partner. "We were aware that there must be a very good reason why you wear the mask; until now we had no thought of asking what that reason was. Unfortunately, in view of this story in the newspaper - "

Erik gritted his teeth. "I understand, Monsieur. You need to know that you were not intending to place a monster on your payroll."

"There was no question of that. My dear fellow, many men have been maimed or disfigured by accident or in battle. You have nothing to be ashamed of. My own dear brother was a cripple with a twisted spine, but he made his way in the world upon his own merits. There is no reason why you should not do the same."

"I thank you for your sentiments, sir, but I doubt if your brother was shunned and vilified by society because of his appearance," Erik said, his tone harsh. "Augustine Albert reacted to my face no differently to any other who has had the misfortune to see it."

"Monsieur Claudin." Marigny coughed again, and it was obvious that he would rather someone else made the request that had fallen to him. "I am afraid that we must ask you to remove your mask. Until we know the truth for ourselves, it is impossible for us to decide upon the issue one way or another."

"It would not _be_ an issue if we had faith in the integrity of our staff," Fontaine muttered, and had the situation been different Erik would have smiled.

"That would not be a good idea, Monsieur," he told Marigny. "My face is not a pretty one. Grown men have been known to faint at the sight."

The manager paled slightly, but he said, "Even so, we must insist. We cannot have accusations like this thrown around."

Erik looked the man in the eye. "Is this a condition of my continued employment?" he asked bluntly.

Marigny exchanged a glance with his colleague. Fontaine shook his head; after a beat Marigny turned back to Erik and nodded. "I am afraid that it is. If you will not trust us, it becomes impossible for us to trust you." He spread his hands helplessly. "I am sure that you must understand that."

"Oh, I understand, Monsieur." Erik struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice. Reaching up slowly he found the almost invisible cord that secured the mask; for a moment the knot refused to budge, his bandaged fingers clumsy, but in all too short a time it gave and the mask fell forwards into his waiting hand. Sitting up straight and holding his head high, he waited, eyes closed, for their reaction. He had seen too many appalled faces over the years; he could not bear to watch as they regarded him with horror and disgust.

Where mere seconds ago time had seemed to move too fast, now it slowed as though its passage had the consistency of treacle. Erik sat there for what felt like an eternity, the air of the warm spring day on his distorted flesh, hearing only the breathing of the managers and the thumping of his own heart in his ears. At last there was another touch upon his shoulder and Fontaine was telling him softly that he might hide his face once more. Gratefully he replaced the mask, opening his eyes to see Marigny, shock visible upon his own countenance, holding a glass of cognac in one shaking hand. Beside him Fontaine was pouring another, which he passed to Erik; gratefully Erik drank, the fiery trail of the liquid as it ran down his throat a distraction from the shame that welled up inside him once more. He had thought his days as a sideshow, being gawped at by all and sundry, were long gone; it was almost terrifying how easily those shades could be summoned from the past.

"If I may enquire," Fontaine said carefully, "How did you... that is, I mean - "

"A birth defect." Erik drained the last of the brandy. "This poor excuse for a face has been with me my entire life."

The manager shook his head, his ruddy features creased in sorrow. Erik had to look away; he couldn't stand pity. A heavy silence fell, its presence almost tangible in the room. The ticking of the ridiculously ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece seemed deafening; he fixed his gaze upon the pendulum, watching it swing back and forth, back and forth, until he was almost mesmerised.

There was the solid clink of a glass being put down, drawing his attention abruptly back towards the desk. Marigny seemed to have regained some of his composure, aided by the alcohol. He regarded Erik steadily, hands clasped before him. "You must accept our apologies, Claudin," he said. "It was not our wish to put you through any form of trial, and I hope that you do not feel we have made unreasonable demands of you. There has been considerable support from within the company, many have come to your defence, but we had to know the truth for ourselves. I am sure you can appreciate that."

Erik barely heard the entire sentence, his mind latching onto the words which caused surprise and confusion to bubble up within him. "My defence? Who has been defending me?" he asked incredulously.

"Half the chorus," Fontaine told him with a smile. "Not to mention Madame Giry, and of course Mademoiselle Daae, who was quick enough with her actions on Saturday night." He winked, but Erik stared at him, uncomprehending.

"What do you mean?"

Fontaine glanced at Marigny, who was wearing a distinctly disapproving expression. The younger man scratched his head, pulling a face. "I think perhaps it might be best if you asked her about that," he said, and then added with a glee that had Marigny rolling his eyes, "I definitely wouldn't like to be on the wrong side of her, that's all I'll say!"

"We can make a complaint to the editors of _Le Figaro_ on your behalf, if that is what you wish." Marigny thankfully seemed determined to draw the conversation back onto professional lines. "In printing such accusations they are guilty of defamation of character; it may be possible to sue them."

"I thank you, Monsieur, but I would rather retain my privacy as far as possible," Erik replied, a little voice in the back of his mind asking him precisely what Christine could have done to gain Fontaine's amused approval. "I have no desire to become a public spectacle." _Again_, he added silently.

"Of course, of course. That is perfectly understandable. But this incident cannot be allowed to pass without some action on our behalf." When Marigny frowned, the skin on his bald pate wrinkled along with his brow. "It seems that Mademoiselle Albert has chosen not to show _her_ face today, but I can assure you that we will speak to her as soon as she returns. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated; even had she not caused so much distress, it is a requirement of all members of staff that they do not approach the press upon any matter without approval of the management. She has broken the terms of her contract and as such can be dismissed."

Though he would have welcomed such just desserts for the woman who had exposed his secret in public, Erik found himself shaking his head. "If you are willing to agree, Messieurs, I would prefer to deal with Mademoiselle Albert myself. She is after all under my jurisdiction; that is, if you still wish to employ me as chorus master after this... debacle."

Before either of the managers could answer there was a knock at the door. With a muttered curse Marigny called, "Come in!"

Jean-Paul, the runner who had brought Erik the summons earlier, stuck his tousled head around the frame. "Begging your pardon, Monsieur, but I've a message for Monsieur Claudin from Madame Giry. It's urgent."

"What is it, Jean-Paul?" Erik asked as Marigny waved a hand in assent.

The boy's freckled face was crumpled in concern. "Madame said you should come at once, sir. Mademoiselle Daae's been taken ill."


	33. Enter the Diva

**ENTER THE DIVA**

"Christine!"

Meg watched in horror as her friend's eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed, the newspaper falling from her hands. Alphonse was quick enough to catch her before she could hit the floor; he eased her down gently and Gianni stripped off his jacket, offering it to the baritone who folded it and slipped it carefully under her head.

"Maman, how could you _do_ that?" Meg demanded, rounding on her mother. "You should have known that stupid report would upset her!"

"She had to know," Madame Giry replied, not batting an eyelid in the face of Meg's anger. "If I hadn't shown her the article someone else would have done."

"You could have broken it to her gently. She's always been highly-strung." _Why else would she still have believed in the Angel of Music for so long?_ Meg added to herself.

Her mother at least had the grace to glance down at the unconscious girl lying on the boards and look a little ashamed. Her stern features softened in concern. "I had no idea she would faint. It must be all the excitement over the weekend." Turning away, she called over one of the runners idling in the wings and sent him flying off to fetch Erik. Meg wondered whether the Phantom had seen _Le Figaro_ yet, and did not like to imagine his reaction if he had.

Crouching down beside her fallen friend she patted one limp hand. "Christine? Christine, it's Meg. Can you hear me?"

There was no response. Alphonse scanned the faces of the little crowd of cast and crew that had gathered around the prostrate soprano. "Well, don't just stand there!" he exclaimed. "Does anyone have any smelling salts?"

Marius held up his hip flask. "Will this do?"

The baritone rolled his eyes. "She's hardly in a position to drink it, you fool."

"We could dab it on her temples," Marie suggested. "My old auntie used to swear by it."

"Sounds like a waste of good whisky to me," said Marius, and he took a swig, offering the flask to her. With a tut she waved him away.

Gianni was peering down at Christine with wide, worried eyes. Over the past few weeks of rehearsals he seemed to have taken a shine to her; Meg felt a little sorry for him, knowing that Christine's affections were already engaged. "Should I fetch a doctor?" he asked.

Alphonse opened his mouth, but before he could say a word an unfamiliar voice rang out, making Meg jump. "Oh, for goodness's sake. Move back and let the poor girl have some air!" it announced, the words perfectly fluent but heavy with a foreign accent. The crowd opened to allow its owner, a tiny, fashionably-dressed figure with thick chestnut hair piled high beneath a jaunty hat trimmed with osprey feathers, through. It was only when they were kneeling together at Christine's side and the newcomer was rummaging in her purse, muttering in annoyance when she couldn't find what she wanted that Meg recognised Theodora Merriman. The new Prima Donna cursed in English before eventually pulling out a small green glass bottle with a little cry of triumph. She glanced at Meg with a smile that revealed a set of perfect, if slightly crooked, teeth. "Don't worry, this won't hurt her," she said, unstoppering the phial. "I'll just - "

This time it was her turn to be interrupted, by the arrival of the Phantom. "What the devil is going on?" Erik demanded before anyone could discover the contents of the bottle. Where the little group had curiously shifted to accommodate Mademoiselle Merriman, this time it parted with something akin to the drama of Moses's miracle of the Red Sea, the air suddenly crackling with tension. There were stares, hushed whispers and obvious attempts not to look directly at his mask, but for once Erik appeared not to notice, his attention entirely upon Christine. His eyes widened, shocked, as they alighted upon her limp form; no one had time to speak before he swooped down, taking her away from Alphonse and gathering her to him, her head against his shoulder. The action was possessive, and far more intimate than any he had shared with her in public so far. Meg wondered whether he realised how it must look to everyone else, and her eyes fell to the ring on Christine's finger. "What happened?" he asked anxiously, turning his unsettling gaze on the company. "Why did she faint?"

"She read the daily news," Meg muttered with a pointed glance at her mother.

Theodora proffered her bottle; Erik stared at it as if it were poison, which made her cluck her tongue impatiently. "Take it," she told him, "It's nothing more than sal volatile. I left my arsenic at home."

Reluctantly, he accepted it, holding it under Christine's nose. Meg winced at the sharp smell; after a moment or two Christine's eyelids began to flicker and she moved her head from side to side, moaning softly. Her forehead creased in a frown, lips moving as she raised a weak hand, searching for something. "...Erik?" she whispered, and her eyes flew open, huge and staring. "Erik!"

"It's all right, Christine, I'm here," he said, and she caught hold of his lapel, clutching it tightly. He tenderly stroked her hair. "Calm yourself, my dear."

"The paper... I saw the paper, and then... Madame Giry said the managers wanted to see you - " Christine seemed completely unaware of the circle of observers that surrounded them, huddling into his embrace. "I was so scared, I thought that you... that they... that they would - "

"That they would what? Lock me up? I'm fine, as you can see."

She sat up a little, lifting one hand to lightly touch his mask. "They didn't - ?"

"No." Erik shook his head. "No, they did not."

"Oh, thank goodness," Christine breathed, sinking back against him and closing her eyes, relieved.

Silence fell, and then Meg heard the familiar thump of her mother's cane on the boards. "I think it is high time we all returned to our work," Madame Giry said in a tone that brooked no argument. "We have wasted quite enough of the morning already."

With murmurs of disappointment, the crowd began to disperse, ballet rats fluttering away in a cloud of white muslin and tulle, chattering amongst themselves, the members of the chorus making a more dignified withdrawal. Marius stopped to offer his flask once more; to Meg's surprise Erik accepted it, persuading Christine to take a sip. She choked on the spirits, tears springing to her eyes as she coughed, but it seemed to revive her a little. Slipping his free arm beneath her knees Erik lifted her; she gave a cry of alarm, throwing her arms around his neck as though she feared she might fall. Despite her protests that she was all right he bore her away.

"You need to lie down," he said firmly.

"Not now, Erik. What will people think?" she asked plaintively as they vanished , turning the corner.

"Well!" said Hortense. Meg glanced round to see that her colleague was standing behind her. Though Madame Giry had begun drilling the majority of the corps in some basic exercises, one or two of them had managed to slip away. "It certainly looks as though Christine wasn't_ too_ heartbroken to lose the vicomte."

"Did you _see_ that ring?" asked Giselle. "Wasn't it beautiful? I'd love someone to give me a ring just like that."

"It's obvious where it came from, too," Hortense sniffed, black eyes narrowed suspiciously. "She called him 'Erik', did you hear? Not Monsieur Claudin or Maestro as she should, but _Erik_. How unprofessional!"

"No one needs to hear your opinions, Hortense," Meg snapped, automatically defensive of her friends. "And it's no one's business but Christine's."

"You would say that. You two have been as thick as thieves almost since she arrived," the ballerina said with a toss of her dark hair. "We all know who'll be getting all the best roles from now on."

Giselle's mouth opened in an o of surprise. "I thought Mademoiselle Merriman was the new prima donna."

"If he can give her a ring like that, why would he think twice about casting her in the lead?" Hortense asked. "It's just typical of a certain type of person. Funny, I never thought Christine was one to sleep her way to the top."

"You really think that they're... doing that?" Giselle's eyebrows disappeared into her fringe.

"Why else would he be buying her expensive jewellery? I expect they - "

"That's _enough_, Hortense!" exclaimed Meg furiously. Before she could stop herself she blurted out, "If you must know, Christine and Monsieur Claudin are _engaged_!"

There was a pause, during which both of them stared at her in amazement, then Giselle cried, "Oh, that's _so_ romantic!"

"Engaged? To be married?" When Meg nodded, Hortense covered her mouth with a hand. After a moment she said in a hushed whisper, "Has she seen his face?"

"You didn't ask that question when you thought she was his mistress," Meg retorted.

"That was different; people endure all sorts when there's something to be gained. Do you... do you think it's really as bad as Augustine says?"

Thankfully, Meg was saved from replying. She caught the glare her mother was shooting in their direction, but before Madame Giry's wrath could descend upon them Theodora Merriman returned. She was carrying a tray bearing a teapot and china cup and Meg tried hard to hide her surprise at the sight of the Opera's new diva doing something La Carlotta would have delegated to her maid.

"Miss Giry?" she asked as Giselle and Hortense scuttled away to join the other ballet rats. "I wonder, would you mind showing me which is Miss Daae's dressing room? I've got some hot sweet tea for her; it's just the thing for shock, don't you think?"

* * *

"I thought you might want to get away for a few minutes," Theodora said, following Meg down the corridor. She refused all offers to take the tray, shrugging them off with a comment that she had done much heavier work in her time. "That terrifying ballet mistress looked as though she'd like to fillet the lot of you."

"That ballet mistress is my mother, Mademoiselle," Meg said, adding with a grin, "But you're right, she _is_ terrifying."

"Oh, dear Lord. How embarrassing." The prima donna blushed, and then gave a rueful smile. "You'll have to excuse me, Miss Giry; my brain and my mouth don't often work together. I wish I could do something about it; it's rather awkward to sing around your foot."

"It's all right. Maman can be a bit intimidating, but she's a pussycat really." Meg hoped her mother never heard that; if Madame Giry found out she'd said as much the pussycat would turn into a tiger and she'd be doing endless ronds de jambe for the next six months. "And please, call me Meg. Everyone does."

"That's very kind of you, Meg." Theodora balanced the tray precariously on one arm and held out her free hand. "I'm Teddy."

Meg took it and had her own shaken firmly. The hand might have been encased in an expensive kid leather glove, but there was nothing weak or womanish in its grip; though she might look small and fragile it was quite obvious that a very definite strength lay behind the facade. There was steel, as well as amusement dancing in Theodora Merriman's brilliant green eyes; Meg found herself liking the new diva immediately. After the tantrums and affectations of Signora Giudicelli, to have someone so apparently down to earth in such a prestigious position within the company would be a refreshing change. "Teddy?" she asked, and those flashing eyes rolled heavenward.

"I can thank my poor old daddy for that. He wanted me to be a boy; couldn't cope with five daughters. Changed his mind now, though; damn near cried his eyes out when he saw me singing on the stage of the Met back in New York. Is this it?" Theodora asked as they came to a halt outside Christine's door. She looked around her curiously at the dark little passageway, so far from the stage, its paint peeling and the floor in need of a sweep. "A little out of the way, isn't it? I thought Miss Daae was the company's best soprano; in most places this wouldn't be deemed suitable for the lowest member of the chorus."

"She's grown rather attached to her room," Meg said, lifting a hand to knock. "She's a little... superstitious about it."

"Ah." A perfectly-plucked eyebrow lifted. "The kind who says 'the Scottish play' then turns round twice and spits in a fire bucket, eh?"

Meg smiled, feeling a little baffled by some of her companion's remarks. They must lose something in translation, she decided. "Something like that."

There was a long pause before her knock was answered. She was expecting an invitation to enter, and nearly fell into the room when the door was suddenly jerked half open and Erik, the unmasked side of his face creased in a frown, appeared in the gap. When he saw Meg he visibly relaxed, only to tense up again the moment he spotted Theodora in the corridor behind her.

"How is Christine?" Meg asked.

Erik opened his mouth to reply but was beaten to it by his fiancée. "I'm fine, Meg," Christine called, and Meg peered around the Phantom to see her friend lying on the little sofa covered with a patchwork blanket. She still looked slightly wan but seemed rather more cheerful. Her shoes had been assiduously removed and stood to attention on the floor beside her and she rested against a veritable mound of pillows. "Erik won't stop fussing. Anyone would think I was really ill!"

"One cannot be too careful," Erik said, slowly stepping aside to allow the visitors cross the threshold.

Christine pouted. "You needn't treat me as if I'm made of china. I won't – oh. Hello." A flush touched her cheekbones at the sight of Theodora.

"Bit of a curious way for us to meet, but I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Daae," the prima donna said, setting down the tray on Christine's tiny side table. There was barely room for it, and the table wobbled slightly under the weight. "I've heard a whole lot about you."

"Would that be the truth, or gossip, Madame?" Erik enquired sharply. He was leaning against the mirror, arms folded defensively, and eyeing the interloper with obvious suspicion.

"Erik - " Christine began in a warning tone, but no one took any notice of her.

"It's Mademoiselle, and I reserve my judgement until I've heard all there is to hear," Theodora told him. She poured a cup of tea, added four teaspoons of sugar and offered it to Christine who took it with a slightly bewildered air. "For instance, I won't believe a word of that rubbish in the paper today unless I'm given good reason to. I assume you'd prefer that, Mister Claudin?"

The Phantom glared at her, and appeared about to make a scathing comment before he evidently changed his mind. Eventually he said, expression clearing as comprehension dawned, "You must be Mademoiselle Merriman."

"Guilty as charged." The little kid-gloved hand was proffered, and Erik shook it gingerly. Theodora shot him a dazzling smile. "You want to come to the States, Monsieur; out there no one would give two cents for what you're hiding under that attractive piece of pottery."

Erik's fingers stole instinctively towards his mask and he returned her smile somewhat uncomfortably. "You are very... forthright, Mademoiselle."

"I speak as I find," she said with a shrug. "We do where I come from; no time for flattery or dissembling, two things that are rife in this profession."

"I'm gratified to hear you say so. Too many mediocre performers have risen to the top and remained there because others were too scared of their power and influence to tell them the truth." Erik's lip curled and Meg knew he was referring to Carlotta.

"Won't you have a cup of tea, Mademoiselle Merriman?" Christine asked before he could launch into an impassioned dissection of everything that had been wrong with the departed prima donna. "Erik, there are some cups in the second drawer of the dressing table."

"Well, since you're offering so kindly, I think I will. And it's Teddy," Theodora added, taking the only other seat in the room and bewildering Christine once more. An explanation quickly cleared up the confusion, and it did not take long for the two to be chatting like old friends, Theodora's disarming manner making light work of Christine's reticence.

"Meg, I must speak to you," Erik said quietly just as Meg, feeling superfluous to requirements, was considering returning to the rehearsal. She startled, not realising he was so close, and turned to see him standing right behind her.

"I wish you wouldn't creep up on people," she told him, trying to still her pounding heart.

"My apologies; old habits die hard." His gaze was directed at the floor and his fingers twitched as though he wasn't sure whether it would be appropriate to lay a hand on her arm or not. He settled for stuffing them into his pockets in a remarkably human gesture she didn't think she'd ever seen him make before. "And as we are on the subject of apologies, I wished to speak of Saturday night."

"Don't," Meg said, which made him look up, surprise written clearly across the undamaged side of his face. "You don't have to say anything, Erik, I've already forgiven you."

He sighed and shook his head. "You should not have to keep doing so. My behaviour was reprehensible."

"You weren't yourself. I understand that. But Erik," she added before he could argue, "You _must_ know how frightening you can be, even if you didn't mean it. Down there in the dark, covered in blood... you terrified me. I wanted nothing more than to turn and run, to get as far away from you as possible."

A look of horror flared in those mismatched eyes and he backed away as though she had physically struck him. "If that's so, how can you stand to be near me now?" he asked in a voice so soft she barely heard him.

Meg glanced at Christine, who was watching them nervously over Theodora's shoulder as the diva talked away, gesticulating with her chipped teacup. "Because, like Christine, I've seen the real you," she said simply.

Surprised, Erik just stared at her for a long moment. She began to become a little worried when he said nothing, but just as she was about to ask if he was all right he withdrew a hand from the pocket of his coat and rested it lightly on her shoulder. "Thank you, Meg," he murmured, and she laid her hand over his, squeezing the thin fingers encouragingly, careful of the bandages.

"That's a very charming rock you have on your finger there," Theodora announced to Christine. She turned to direct a raised eyebrow towards Erik. "You have excellent taste, Monsieur; elegant and not too showy. May I offer my congratulations to you both and ask when the wedding is to be?"

Christine and Erik exchanged a look of consternation, a look which the soprano then turned upon Meg. She smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. It just... slipped out."

"Oh, I've done it again." Mortified, Theodora's hand flew to her mouth. "Was it supposed to be a secret?"

Leaving Meg, Erik returned to his fiancée, taking up an almost protective stance behind her. Christine reached out to him, entwining her fingers with his, and such was the love shining on her face that no one could doubt the happiness his presence gave her. "No," she said, smiling up at him, "It's not a secret. I've done with secret engagements; we have nothing to hide from anyone."

"Well said, sweetheart," said Theodora approvingly. She lifted her teacup. "This seems a little inadequate for the situation. Does anyone know where we can get some champagne?"


	34. Announcements and a Revelation

**Author's Note:  
**

Thank you once again for all your lovely reviews. I'm pleased you like Teddy. :)

* * *

**ANNOUNCEMENTS... AND A REVELATION**

"Ah, Mesdemoiselles, Monsieur, so glad you could join us," Marigny said dryly as the latecomers filed into place. Christine was blushing; Erik looked pale and uncomfortable at being faced with almost the entire staff of the theatre knowing that they would have read Béringer's article, and Madame Giry saw Christine surreptitiously reach for his hand. In contrast Theodora Merriman held her head high, a smile lurking around her lips as though she found being scolded like a tardy schoolgirl highly amusing. Meg scuttled into line with the other ballerinas, evidently hoping that her mother wouldn't have noticed her absence. The manager harrumphed and turned back to his assembled artistes. "As I was saying, Monsieur Fontaine and I would like to officially welcome Signor Rossi - " The Italian bowed but barely twitched a smile "and Mademoiselle Merriman to the Opera Populaire. I am sure you will all agree that they will be an asset to our company."

There was a smattering of applause, above which Antoinette heard Marius mutter to Alphonse, "That remains to be seen." The baritone nodded.

"After considerable consultation with the Marquis de Borges, we have decided upon our next production," Marigny continued. "This will go into rehearsals next week, while _Rigoletto_ is still playing. The notices have been extremely favourable, and we can expect all of the advertised performances to be sold out. I hope that we can rely upon you all to ensure that the quality remains as high for the remainder of the run." He glanced round, first at Reyer and then at Erik. "I am sure that our director of music and our chorus master will allow nothing less."

"While we are on the subject," Fontaine interjected, earning himself a frown of annoyance from his partner, "I would like to mention that we have extended an invitation to Monsieur Claudin to join the Populaire on a permanent basis. Monsieur Reyer is quite happy to remain in charge of the orchestra and so we hope," he added, shooting a smile in Erik's direction, "that Monsieur Claudin will find it possible to overcome the appalling slight given by one member of this company and accept our offer."

"As do I," said Mademoiselle Merriman, much to everyone's surprise. She looked at Rossi. "I don't know about you, Antonio, but I certainly want to work with the man behind the voices in _Rigoletto_. If I hadn't heard Friday's performance I would be on a boat back to New York by now."

Rossi's lips lifted almost imperceptibly; if he was indeed smiling the gesture was lost beneath his curled black moustache. "Quite so, Signorina."

"We'd like you to stay on, too, Monsieur," Alphonse said, stepping forwards. "And we want you to know that Augustine doesn't speak for the rest of us. Your face doesn't matter here; this is a theatre after all, and we're all hiding behind one mask or another."

There was a chorus of 'hear hear' from many of the assembled and Madame Giry nodded in approval. Everyone looked expectantly at Erik. Evidently rather overcome by this unexpected public display of support, he turned pink around the ears and seemed unable to speak for some moments. At last, encouraged by Christine, who murmured in his ear and squeezed his hand lovingly, he cleared his throat and said, his magnificent voice somewhat rough around the edges, "Thank you. I would be very happy to remain with the Populaire."

With an unladylike squeal of delight Marie Durant led a round of enthusiastic applause which was brought to a halt by Marigny raising an impatient hand.

"Now that we have such formalities out of the way, I would like to announce that we wish to vary the tone of the season somewhat and to that end we will be presenting a new production of _Die Fledermaus_ by Strauss. I believe that Mademoiselle Merriman has had some success in the role of Rosalinde on the London stage." Theodora inclined her head, and the manager continued, "The roles will therefore be cast as follows: Rosalinde von Eisenstein: Mademoiselle Merriman; Gabriel von Eisenstein, her husband: Signor Rossi. Monsieur DuPre will play Alfred, the singing teacher who is also Rosalinde's lover. Mademoiselle Daae will take on the role of Adele, Rosalinde's maid. Messieurs Renard and Giordano will play Doctor Falk and Doctor Blind respectively. The role of Prince Orlofsky will be taken by Mademoiselle Durant."

"Understudies will be selected by Messieurs Reyer and Claudin, and they will of course provide you all with a copy of the libretto," said Fontaine. "As this piece does not contain a ballet we will be calling upon Monsieur Reyer to compose a new piece with which to open Act II, which Madame Giry will naturally choreograph."

Reyer looked a little taken aback at being asked to write such an important piece at short notice. "If you say so, Monsieur," he said, scratching his head and making his bowler hat jig up and down. "Perhaps I might prevail upon Monsieur Claudin to assist me?"

"A collaboration? Excellent!" Fontaine exclaimed before Erik could even open his mouth. He clapped his hands together. "That's all settled then. I think we can leave you to your rehearsal, eh, Claude?"

Marigny shuffled through the papers he held, scrutinizing one or two closely before finally nodding. The managers departed, stopping only for Marigny to tell Erik that they would need him to return to the office at some point during the day to sign a contract. Once they were gone, the buzz of conversation descended upon the stage like a swarm of excited bees.

"A leading role! I can't believe it!" Marie cried, astonished. For a moment the mezzo looked as though she might faint but thankfully recovered herself. Madame Giry was grateful; she knew that singers could be over-emotional but to have two of them swooning in the space of an hour would be rather too much.

Christine smiled. "You deserve it after all the time you've spent in the chorus."

"Oh, but Orlofsky should have gone to you, Christine!" Marie said. "You look so well in male costume and you deserve it far more than me. I've always been quite happy to remain in the background."

"Don't be so silly," Christine told her. "After singing Gilda I'm more than content with a smaller part. Besides, I'll be understudying Rosalinde and that will be quite enough work. Especially," she added glancing at Erik, "with such an exacting teacher."

"I have never pushed you to any heights you were not capable of scaling, my dear," he replied, recovering some of his poise now that he was not being observed by everyone in the room.

"They all say that," said Theodora Merriman, arching an eyebrow. "Then they wonder why you're a nervous wreck every time you step on stage."

"Oh, Er – Monsieur Claudin is nothing like that!" Christine replied hurriedly, catching herself as she realised others were listening to the conversation. Antoinette wondered exactly when she and Erik intended to announce their engagement to the company at large; it would not stay hidden as long as a diamond ring adorned Christine's finger. "He is most considerate."

A mischievous smile quirked the new diva's lips, and Madame Giry found herself wishing to know what had gone on in that dressing room in her absence. "I'm sure he is, sweetheart," Theodora said with a wink, making Christine flush prettily.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have some order..!" Monsieur Reyer called from the pit, banging his baton on the music stand. "This _is_ meant to be a rehearsal and there are one or two minor kinks we need to iron out before tonight's performance!"

No one took any heed, too busy gossiping. The ballet rats were in a huddle, chattering away and occasionally looking over their shoulders to where Christine stood with Erik and Mademoiselle Merriman. Reyer, rolling his eyes in despair, shot a pleading glance towards Antoinette. As always, she did not need to say a word; all it took to achieve silence was the swift, precise thump of her cane on the boards. At the sound her dancers shuffled into formation like well-drilled soldiers. Even Marius put away his hip flask and stood to attention.

"Thank you," Reyer said with a deep sigh of relief. "Now, if we could go over the opening of Act I, with just the Duke and Rigoletto. Messieurs Renard and DuPre..?"

Alphonse and Marius submitted to the musical director's demands, taking their places while Reyer drilled the orchestra. Erik remained on the sidelines, divining as Madame Giry did that it was the musicians who really needed the rehearsal; the new first bassoon and third trombone were still finding their feet. Antoinette directed the ballerinas towards the wings, where they stood in a neat line; it did not take long for the whispering to begin again, however, and she fixed the perpetrators with a gimlet stare.

"Giselle! Hortense!" she snapped, and the two jumped guiltily. "If you find something of such importance that you cannot leave it for even a moment, perhaps you would care to share it with the rest of us."

"It's nothing, Madame Giry," Hortense said. "We were - "

"We were just wondering if Christine would let us see her ring," Giselle interrupted breathlessly. "It's so pretty, and I think she's so lucky to have Monsieur Claudin as a fiancé – ow!" She broke off with a squeal as Hortense kicked her in the shins.

"Looks like the cat's out of the bag," Theodora observed. "Just as well you were intending to come clean anyway."

"We couldn't hope to keep it to ourselves for long," Christine told Erik, who sighed.

"Now everyone will think you get your roles because of nepotism," he muttered.

"That's hardly likely, unless there's something you're not telling us and Monsieur Fontaine is actually the one who proposed," said Theodora, amused.

Christine giggled, and squeezed Erik's hand. "No more secrets, remember?" she asked. He nodded wearily, and she turned to Antoinette. "If you don't mind, Madame..?"

Madame Giry waved a hand in assent and Christine approached the ballet rats, who fell into a chorus of 'ooh's and 'aah's over her engagement ring. "She's right," she said quietly to Erik. "There was no way to keep it between yourselves unless you wanted her to wear the ring around her neck like she did with the vicomte's."

"Nothing was further from my mind," he replied sharply. "We have nothing to hide."

"And of course it tells the world that she is yours." He glared at her, and she just smirked, knowing full well how much he must be enjoying the feeling that Christine was finally his and his alone. There was a possessive streak in him that had obviously grown from having to cling to those things he held dear lest they were wrenched away; after so many years in selfish solitude it would take a very long time to cure him of such a trait.

"Sorry to break up this little party," Theodora Merriman said, startling them both. Neither had even noticed her absence, but now she stood before them having evidently crossed the stage and fetched Signor Rossi from where he had been lurking in the wings, watching proceedings with a bored eye. He was a head shorter than Erik but still towered over her, his brooding presence giving the impression that a hawk had decided to keep company with a wren. "I wanted to introduce you both to Antonio. He and I have sung together several times, in Covent Garden and at La Scala. You really should ask him for a sample of his Corrado sometime." She kissed her fingers. "Sublime!"

"_Incantato_, Signora," Rossi murmured as he bent over Antoinette's hand. He nodded to Erik, the gesture no more than a jerk of the head. "Signor."

"Is this your first time on the Paris stage, Signor?" Madame Giry enquired. There was something familiar about his dark eyes; she felt sure she had seen him somewhere before. She glanced at Erik and saw that he was frowning, as though he were thinking the same thing.

Rossi shook his head. "No, I have spent the majority of my career in Italy. In recent years I spent five seasons in London."

"You speak very good French, if I may say so," Erik remarked. "Unusual for a man who has not lived in France."

The tenor dismissed the comment with a wave. "I have an excellent ear for languages. It is helpful in this profession; I have sung many French operas."

"What made you choose to join us here at the Populaire?" asked Antoinette, curious.

"I desired a change. I also wished to see for myself whether everything I had been told about the Paris Opera was true."

Madame Giry exchanged a glance with Erik. "You have heard stories about us?"

"But of course, Signora. My half sister was Prima Donna here for many years," Rossi replied. He paused before adding, "You must surely have worked with her: she is the celebrated Carlotta Giudicelli."


	35. Clash of the Titans

**CLASH OF THE TITANS**

"I don't believe it!" Erik said again, pacing the room. "It took years to rid ourselves of that talentless harpy, and now we have to endure her brother! Goodness knows what she has told him..!"

Madame Giry's brow arched sceptically. "Knowing Carlotta, it will have been a tissue of lies, nothing more than gossip and exaggeration. You have little to fear; from what you told me about the _Don Juan_ performance she was gone before you even stepped out onto the stage."

"She's more likely to have filled his head with horrible things about me," Christine pointed out, watching the Phantom as he took another turn about the little room. It was Monsieur Pevitt's old office, which had come to Erik now by default; had the circumstances been different she would have felt proud that he finally had an official space of his own within the theatre. The libretti for _Die Fledermaus _were stacked on the desk and his hat hung on the stand beside the door. "You know how much she hated me."

"Carlotta would have hated anyone who upstaged her," the ballet mistress said kindly, patting her hand. "You were unfortunate to be the one in the firing line. And we all know who was to blame for that..." She shot Erik a sharp glare as he passed, but he barely noticed, head down and fingers tightly laced behind his back. Christine saw a spot of blood on the dressing that swathed his right hand and hoped that he had not reopened the cuts.

"We need a plan of action," he muttered. "Damage limitation... precisely how much does he know?"

"Surely the best thing to do would be to carry on as normal," Madame Giry told him. "There is no need to raise his suspicions by behaving in a furtive or guilty manner. As far as Carlotta was concerned she was targeted by a madman with a taste for cruel pranks, a trickster determined to oust her from her position of Prima Donna in favour of Christine."

At her words he finally stopped moving and stared at her, mouth twitching in annoyance. "And precisely what do you mean by that, Madame?" he enquired in a dangerous tone.

Antoinette ignored him. Christine never ceased to marvel at the ballet mistress's ability to remain sanguine in the face of Erik's wrath. "I mean that there is no direct evidence to connect you with the Phantom, whatever _Le Figaro_ claims. You may be chorus master, but Christine is not the Prima Donna. When Carlotta departed, so did the Opera Ghost."

"Surely you can't imagine we can pretend everything that happened was Carlotta's delusion, Madame?" asked Christine in astonishment. "What about the masquerade? Everyone saw Erik then - "

"They saw someone in a ridiculously overblown costume," Madame Giry said firmly. "Only a few who were nearby actually saw and heard what occurred between you, and no one with any sense believed those stupid stories Carlotta spread about you being the Phantom's mistress. My point is," she added when Erik opened his mouth to object, "no one really knows what was real and what was fantasy, invention. Your talent for misdirection and sleight of hand works in your favour. You communicated with the managers by letter, they never saw you. When you were heard by others the night of _Il Muto_ and again at the ball, your voice was disguised, you held everyone under your spell. Who would believe that a normal man is capable of such things?"

Erik frowned, unfurling himself and folding his arms. "You mean that we should laugh off any accusations as nonsense?"

"Do you have a better idea? What evidence is there, truly, beyond a handful of tall tales and muddled memories? Those of us who were directly involved will say nothing, and the others are too far away to cause trouble."

He looked at her for a long moment before throwing up both hands in defeat. "Damn it, Annie, why do you have to be right all the time?"

"Because someone decided you needed a conscience and a guiding hand," she told him, a tiny smile lurking about her lips as she brushed a speck of dust from her skirts. "I don't believe for a moment that we met by chance."

"Fate thought I was lacking aggravation in my life, obviously," said Erik dryly. Rounding the battered desk he sank into the chair behind it, leaning back with a sigh. "Maybe I should just leave Paris, go somewhere no one has ever heard of the Opera Ghost. I could start again, become someone else."

"Erik, you wouldn't leave the Opera?" Christine cried, sitting up straight. She reached out to grab his hand. "You can't!"

"It's all right, my dear, I would never leave you behind," he assured her, touching his lips to her knuckles. "We could both build a completely new life, away from those who would judge us."

"And you would be happy to have to win the confidence and acceptance of a whole new group of people?" asked Madame Giry, brows lifting in surprise. "You would merely be exchanging one set of prejudices for another."

"Erik, you have gained the respect of everyone here," said Christine, adding when he pulled a face, "All right, maybe not absolutely everyone, but you have proved yourself and you are valued. The managers would not ask you to stay on if they were not convinced of your ability." Getting up she perched on the desk in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "If you decide to throw all that over you are running away and that is a cowardly response. I told you before: I do not think you are a coward."

He gave no response, head sunk on one hand, for some time until eventually he gave her fingers a squeeze and said, "Two against one? That's hardly fair now, is it?"

"Does that mean you're not going to run off to places unknown?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, I suppose not. Not at present, at any rate."

"Good." Christine bent down and kissed him on his uncovered cheek. "I don't think I want to start my married life as a fugitive."

"You make it sound as if someone would be pursuing us," Erik complained. "I prefer to think of it as reinventing myself."

"You say that as though you've done it before."

"It has been necessary over the years," was all he would say and Christine realised once again how little she knew of his past. Now that they were engaged she hoped he might allow his defences to drop and share some of that mysterious, tantalising period of his life with her. It was no use asking him directly; he would retreat behind those invisible walls and might never emerge. When he deemed the time to be right he would tell her. She hoped that moment would not be too long in coming.

"You can reinvent yourself now," said Madame Giry. "From Phantom to chorus master is no little step."

"Some would view it as a step backwards," Erik remarked, the visible corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

"Others might call it a step in the right direction," she replied.

He bowed his head in assent, but Christine could see him smirking. So, evidently, could Madame, for she got to her feet and retrieved her cane from where it was propped against the wall.

"I can see that further conversation on this subject is useless," she said. "It's high time I returned to my ballerinas; no doubt the news of your engagement is right round the building by now."

Erik groaned, and this time it was Madame Giry's turn to smirk. Head held high she turned towards the door but before she could reach it someone knocked from outside, startling them all. Erik recovered his composure almost immediately, straightening in his chair. "No rest for the wicked, it would seem," he said, calling upon the visitor to enter.

"I'm surprised to find you still here," a familiar voice announced as the door opened. Augustine Albert, a vision in a brilliant green silk walking dress trimmed with marabou feathers that looked as though she had borrowed it from La Carlotta's wardrobe, stood on the threshold, her nose in the air and a disdainful expression upon her pale face. There was no sign of the mark on her cheek left by Christine's slap. "I thought that the managers would have had the sense to throw you out on your ear as soon as they discovered what you really are."

Madame Giry stared at the newcomer, dark eyes hard. "Would you like me to fetch any assistance?" she asked Erik evenly.

"Thank you, but no," he replied, much to Christine's surprise. "Would you leave us alone, please?"

Reluctantly the ballet mistress nodded, sailing past Augustine, her look of thinly-veiled contempt running over the soprano before she vanished into the corridor. Christine automatically rose to follow, but stopped when Erik said,

"Not you, Christine. I would rather you remained."

Augustine shot them both a glare. "I refuse to speak in front of your paramour."

"Paramour?" Erik laughed, which only seemed to infuriate her. "What an amusing thought. Unfortunately _I_ refuse to speak without a witness, so Christine remains. Those are my terms: you may take them or leave them."

Slowly, and feeling incredibly awkward, Christine sat once more, surreptitiously scooting her chair a little closer to his. Augustine watched her through eyes narrowed suspiciously; when it became clear that Christine was not going to leave the room, she strode forwards until she stood right in front of the desk. She really did look as though she thought herself prima donna, Christine thought; how much had Béringer paid her for that pack of lies, so that she could afford such an expensive new dress and hat? The parasol she carried in one hand looked as though it would cost a weeks' wages alone.

"I don't know how you have the nerve to show your horrible excuse for face here," she hissed, shoving her own face close to his mask. "Something that hideous doesn't belong in a civilised society; the only place for you is in a travelling fair!"

Incredibly, Erik didn't even bat an eyelid at this torrent of abuse. He sat up; if possible, even straighter than before, clasped his hands on the blotter and enquired calmly, "Why did you not attend rehearsal this morning, Mademoiselle Albert?"

"What?" Backing off slightly, she looked rattled for a moment before quickly pulling herself together. "What the hell has that to do with you?"

"As a member of the chorus, and as an artiste with a named role in the current production, you are required to attend each and every rehearsal," Erik said. He reached out for a cardboard file and drew it towards him, opening it and flicking through the pages within. "You were not here this morning; consequently I have been forced to allocate your part to someone who _can_ be bothered to turn up. Maddalena will be played for the remaining performances by Mademoiselle Leclerc." Without looking up he added, "That is all; you may go now."

Augustine stared at him, mouth working up and down wordlessly. Her thin fingers curled into claws, and Christine wondered whether the handle of the parasol would snap under the pressure. "You... you... you miserable little toad!" the older soprano spat. "I know why you're doing this: you want every singer with talent out of the way to make room for _her_!" She thrust out a hand, scarlet nails like talons, towards Christine, who instinctively backed away to avoid having an eye taken out. At close quarters it was obvious that the bruise on Augustine's face had been disguised with over-zealous application of white pan-stick; the foundation was cracking in the warmth of the office and coupled with the circles of rouge on her cheeks and her carefully arranged blonde curls gave her the look of a dissolute china doll. "She's got you by the short and curlies, hasn't she? My God, she must be good. Is it worth it to have her suck - "

"Mademoiselle Daae has nothing to do with this," Erik snapped, cutting her off. "And I will thank you to watch your mouth in her presence. Kindly keep your filthy accusations to yourself."

"It's true! I know it is!" Augustine burst out laughing. "No wonder she's got where she has. First the 'Phantom' and now you. She must know some tricks to keep a man interested. Where did you learn them, Christine? Can the Swedes teach us Parisian girls a few things?"

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched, and Christine saw his long fingers clench around the pen he held. She gently rested a hand upon his. "It's all right, Erik; I'll go," she whispered, but he shook his head.

"There is no reason for you to leave," he told her, directing a freezing glare towards Augustine. "You have said quite enough, Mademoiselle Albert; _you_ may leave. Do not return until you have decided to make a commitment to this theatre."

"Ha! What is the point when it is quite obvious who you has your favour," the soprano declared. "I told you that you could have had a real woman, but you obviously prefer an outward appearance of innocence. I suppose it makes you feel more of a man, compensates for that which you are lacking." Her gaze travelled downwards and the corners of her painted mouth turned upwards as though she could see something through the desk that amused her. "One cannot help but wonder: are you just as twisted... elsewhere?"

Without warning Erik surged to his feet. Leaning across the desktop he slammed both hands down on its battered surface, the sound of the impact making Christine jump. His strong white fingers gripped the wood so hard that the veins stood out, blue lines snaking across the taught skin on the backs of his hands. "_Get out_," he commanded, the flesh and porcelain of his face in awful harmony; a mask of fury. "Get out now before I do something I may regret."

Augustine looked genuinely scared for a moment as he loomed over her, but the expression was swiftly replaced with a sneer. "You needn't worry; I'm going. I don't need the Populaire anyway; all I have to do is call and I'll have a position at any theatre in France."

"Oh, I very much doubt that," Erik said with an evil smile. Christine shuddered inwardly. She disliked that smile so much; it was the smile of the Phantom and she had so hoped that he was putting that part of him to rest. Despite herself she could not help but feel worried for Augustine; she more than anyone else knew what Erik was capable of should he be pushed too far. Unfortunately the other soprano was blithely unaware of the danger in which she stood.

"You can do nothing about it; you have no influence outside these walls," she retorted confidently. "In fact, since you're only a temporary chorus master, you have no power over me at all!"

"Actually, it so happens that I do," Erik replied silkily. Pointing to a sheaf of papers, the topmost of which bore the Populaire's elaborate crest, he added, "That is the contract I signed only an hour ago, agreeing to permanently take on the role. And as for influence, I believe Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine have plenty of it. They were not impressed with your little adventure into print, and are quite anxious to dismiss you. One word from them and no self-respecting theatre in Paris will have you. Not even the Opera Comique."

"So this is your revenge. You're trying to frighten me because I showed the world what an ugly troll you really are. _That_ is how much I care for your threats, Monsieur!" Augustine snapped her fingers under his nose.

"I have no such desire for revenge, Mademoiselle Albert," Erik said, regarding her much as one would an insect that had crawled onto their collar. "You, on the other hand, are clearly desperate to revenge yourself upon me for rejecting your advances. I think it is quite obvious to all of us that being repulsed caused you far more distress than the sight of my face!"

"You think I was bothered about being turned down by something like you?" Another peal of laughter escaped the soprano, hut this time it was rather forced. "Don't flatter yourself. If you have so much power, then why do you not sack me on the spot?"

"I have good reason to, but if I wanted such a mundane way out I would have allowed the managers to deal with the affair," Erik told her. He sat once more, leaning back in his chair. "Rather than simply terminating your employment, I have decided to give you a choice."

She blinked, apparently genuinely surprised. "What... what do you mean?"

"If I allow you to just walk out of here, I am also allowing you to get away with the hurt you have caused. I find myself disinclined to do so; why should you be permitted to spread your hatred and bile wherever you choose with no repercussions?" Erik glanced at Christine and held out a hand to her. She took it, and could feel the almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers. Though outwardly he might radiate arrogance, he was trembling inside; for all his confidence it could not be easy to confront the woman who had so recently ripped away that precious barrier between him and the rest of the world. His mouth was set in a grim line. "You can destroy lives with a few ill-chosen words, Mademoiselle Albert, and I am not willing to let you ruin mine. Better people than you have insulted me and lived to regret it."

Augustine was shaking, too, the parasol shuddering in her grip. Even so, she lifted her chin defiantly. "And what is this choice that I am to make?" she asked.

"Oh, it is quite simple. You can remain with the Populaire, starting again at the very bottom and channelling some of that jealousy and hate into your performance; you are not entirely without talent and if you applied yourself to your art instead of giving in to baser feelings you might even become a star. If you choose otherwise I will terminate your contract and you may take your chances. A career as a chanteuse in one of the late-night cabarets in Montmartre would appear to be the only one open to you." Christine gasped at the insinuation but Erik was relentless. "I believe le Coq D'Or is recruiting; you may find the men there more to your taste. They are less discriminating."

"You... you..." It seemed that Augustine was finally speechless. She stared, wide-eyed, at them both for several moments before her gaze fell to their clasped hands, and from there to the ring on Christine's finger. "I see how it is," she said softly. Her thin features tightened in a scowl and pushing her face into Christine's she shouted, "I wish you well of him, you slut! The pair of you deserve each other!" Whirling around, she flounced out of the office, slamming the door so hard that Erik's hat spun around on its hook and was propelled halfway across the room by the resultant draught.

They both watched the fedora as it settled on the dusty floor. "That woman disgusts me," Erik said, his tone surprisingly mild.

"Do you really think that was the best way to deal with her?" Christine asked. "Surely letting the managers dismiss her would have made things easier for us all."

"I did not want her to have an easy ride of it, not after what she did."

She reached up and kissed his temple. "I understand that. But she can still do us damage, Erik. She and Béringer - "

A low growl rumbled in his chest. "I do not wish to think about that man. Had I my way he would be dangling from the end of the Punjab lasso. However, he is not the only journalist in Paris and it is time we used the press to our advantage." He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss that left her breathless. His eyes gleamed. "What do you say to an announcement of our engagement in _L'Epoque_?"

"Isn't that rather grandiose? Where will we place it: in the society pages alongside those of the aristocracy?" Christine couldn't help giggling at the thought.

"Why not?" Erik smiled, genuinely this time. "You are worth a hundred of any of them."

"I thought you didn't want to draw attention to yourself?"

He grimaced. "There is little hope of that. Antoinette is right: by now even the woman who cleans the water closets will know." Leaning back slightly he regarded her thoughtfully, his gaze softening. "Whatever anyone thinks I find I want to shout your acceptance of me to the skies. In fact, I have a very compelling urge to run up to the roof and do just that."

Christine shook her head, smiling. "Sometimes you can be very silly, Erik Claudin."

"You are probably the first person ever to say so," he said, adding with a wicked little grin, "And of course, if I can prove that harpy wrong and show the world that the 'Monster of the Populaire' is loved, so much the better."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

As I'm away in London the end of next week, the next update will probably be on Saturday the 23rd. See you then! :)


	36. Word Gets Around

**Author's Note:**

I had a lovely few days in London, and saw _Phantom_ for the sixth time. Still get shivers up the spine when the overture begins and the chandelier starts to rise!

On with the story...

* * *

**WORD GETS AROUND**

They were there again.

Christine groaned inwardly at the sight of the little gaggle of journalists on the front steps of the Opera. Ever since _Le Figaro_'s publication of Augustine's hysterical ramblings the press had been hanging around hoping for a comment, or, even better, an interview; Monsieur Marigny had demanded several times that they leave the premises, threatening to report them to their editors and if necessary the police, but they were undaunted, removing themselves to a cafe for a while and then returning once the irate manager no longer had his eye upon them. The announcement of Erik and Christine's engagement had not helped; the reporters became even more eager to obtain a story, firing questions at anyone who entered the building. Getting to work was like running the gauntlet, something which confrontational souls such as Marius and Alphonse might have relished but made life extremely unpleasant for everyone else. Erik, naturally, never had to enter the theatre through the front door, and his absence soon caused the men waiting outside to sniff a story... or to smell a rat.

"Does this fiancé of yours actually exist, Mademoiselle?" one asked as Christine tried to make her way past them. "Or is it true that you really are engaged to the Opera Ghost? What does the Vicomte de Chagny have to say about this turn of events?"

"Is Monsieur Claudin in hiding because of Mademoiselle Albert's accusations?" enquired another, pencil and notepad at the ready. "Does he have anything to say in his defence?"

"Is his face really as bad as she claims? Some are saying that he is a freak of nature; how do you feel about marrying such a man, Mademoiselle Daae?"

"No one has ever heard of this man before, and yet he is the toast of the Opera. His compositions are flying from the shelves and are heard in every drawing room. How can that be?"

"Just who _is_ your fiancé, Mademoiselle? Where does he come from?"

"Is 'Erik Claudin' even his real name?"

Goaded and pushed far enough, Christine stopped and turned to face them. She gripped the edges of her shawl so tightly that for a moment she thought she might tear it in two. "Why do you not go and find something more important to write about?" she asked, her voice shrill with anxiety and desperation. "There are wars and depravation and children dying in slums; tell the world about _them_! All we want to do is live our lives in peace. Why can you not leave us alone?"

For a moment the gathered men were silent, but just as she thought she might have got through to them one burst out,

"Give us a comment, Mademoiselle Daae: is it true that you are marrying the new chorus master in order to advance your career?"

Furious, she rounded on the speaker. "How _dare_ you! I don't suppose it would occur to you that I might actually _love_ him?"

At that they began their barrage of questions anew, all talking at once and each trying to be louder than the others. Faces, their features becoming a blur, were pushed close to hers and notebooks waved under her nose; Christine thought she might scream, backing instinctively towards the door behind her, fumbling blindly for the handle and wishing that Erik were there. They crowded around and she felt herself began to shake, panicking at the thought that she might be trapped there forever at their mercy, demands and insinuations ringing in her ears.

"Go away!" she cried. "Go away, you vultures! Leave me a - " Her fingers found the handle and pushed down on it; a second later she yelped in surprise and all but fell backwards as the heavy door swung inwards far quicker than it should have done. A hand caught hold of her arm and pulled her over the threshold, slamming the door before the journalists could follow.

Blinking in the gloom of the foyer, dark after the bright sunlight outside without its hundreds of lamps lit, Christine was surprised to find that her rescuer was Jacques, the elderly porter who normally looked after the stage door. He shot the reporters, who were still shouting and pounding their fists against the thick wood, a look of pure contempt and spat on the floor. Christine winced, feeling sorry for the cleaners who would have to polish the marble again.

"Parasites," the old man said. "You want to be careful, missy; use the side entrance, they ain't been hanging around down there so much."

Christine nodded, though she had been deliberately avoiding the Rue Scribe door in order to direct attention away from the gate that led down to the cellars and Erik's underground realm. Though it was well-concealed, the last thing he needed was for the press to find their way into the tunnels. "Thank you, Jacques."

The porter huffed, chewing on his ever-present tobacco. "What're you doing here, anyway? Ain't it your day off?"

"I left something in my dressing room. I thought the managers were trying to do something about those journalists."

"Monsieur Marigny's been on the telephone since first thing, but nothing's happened yet. If I had my way I'd call out the gendarmerie and have 'em all carted off to the cells for disturbing the peace," Jacques declared. "A whole group of 'em nearly overturned Mademoiselle Merriman's cab last night. She gave as good as she got, though; clobbered three with her handbag and damn near turned the air blue. That woman knows some curses!" He dissolved into wheezing laughter and Christine found herself smiling. She could well believe that Theodora Merriman was capable of defending herself.

"I just have to fetch a libretto," she told Jacques. "Don't worry about seeing me out; I'll use the other door."

He grunted. "Where's that fiancé of yours, girly? He should be looking after you, not leaving you to the mercy of those lowlifes."

"Oh, he does, don't worry." Thanking him once more, Christine hurried across the foyer and down the passage that eventually led to the backstage areas, passing decoration which gradually changed from gilded ostentation to drab functionality; carvings and frescoes were replaced with heating conduits, gas pipes and occasional electrical wires, the plush red carpet underfoot becoming bare boards. There were no brilliant shimmering chandeliers in this netherworld, only gas lamps and tallow candles as the cast and crew went about their work in an almost perpetual twilight.

There was no performance this evening, but there was still activity, Madame Michon and her assistants mending and cleaning costumes, Pierre's band of painters and carpenters fixing damaged sets and working on new ones for the next production. The sound of sawing and hammering was interspersed with tuneless whistling and the odd lewd comment, followed by hearty male laughter. Someone was singing, a particularly rude ditty that made Christine blush as she made her way towards her dressing room; she thought she recognised the tune but could not place it.

"Mademoiselle Daae, thank goodness!" The wardrobe mistress accosted her in the corridor, a pile of tulle tutus in her arms. "I need you to try on the maid's costume from _Il Muto_; if it still fits we'll use it again for the new piece. You're playing a maid, yes?"

"Yes, but - "

Madame Michon gave her no time to protest. "Good. The cap and skirt should do nicely. We can dress it up a bit with a fancy blouse. Come along; we'll look at it now."

"But, Madame, the opera hasn't even started rehearsal yet!" Christine protested as she was taken by the arm and practically dragged towards the costume store. "Surely there's plenty of time - "

"Not when I have three new dresses to make for Mademoiselle Merriman and two suits for the new Signor. Not to mention costumes for the entire corps de ballet, which to my knowledge haven't even been designed yet! Someone told me that the music for the ballet hasn't been written; is that true?"

"Well, the managers asked Monsieur Reyer to compose a new piece, but I don't think that - "

Again Christine was interrupted. "Men!" exclaimed Madame Michon, tossing the tutus into a wicker basket and shutting the lid. "They have no idea how much work it takes to produce something worthy of the Populaire's stage! I can't have the Prima Donna and Primo Uomo up there in rags unless the script demands it, and three couture gowns can't be made inside a week. My girls will be working their fingers to the bone for a month on all this!"

Realising that she would never get a word in edgewise, Christine meekly submitted to trying on her old Serafimo costume. Muttering, pins in her mouth, Madame Michon made a few adjustments to the skirt. By the time Christine was allowed to escape she had been made to stand like a dummy while the wardrobe mistress nipped and tucked an extravagant, dangerously low-cut peacock blue gown for the scene in which Adele pretended to be an actress, and listen to unending complaints about the treatment of precious costumes by certain members of the cast. It was with relief that she gathered up her bag and shawl and almost ran down the passage towards her own room.

Desperate to reach the mirror and leave the world above ground, with its frustrations and aggravations, behind, she wasn't looking where she was going and ran straight into someone coming in the opposite direction. Winded by the collision and trying breathlessly to apologise, she looked up and found herself staring into the calculating dark eyes of Signor Rossi. For a long moment he just stared at her before stepping back and offering her a hand to right herself.

Christine frowned, wondering what he was doing wandering the corridors on a day when the theatre was dark. The principal dressing rooms were in a bigger, newly-painted passage; there was no reason for him to be hanging around in the almost forgotten area that housed her quarters. "Are you lost?" she asked. "I can show you the way back to the wings, or the stage door, if you'd like."

He regarded her steadily for some moments, long enough for her to feel distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze, before he said in his barely-accented French, "That will not be necessary, but thank you. I am surprised to see you here, Signorina; is not the cast taking a rest today?"

"I left something behind." Christine had to look away; the manner in which he regarded at her was making her skin crawl. "Do you usually visit the theatre when it is not open?"

Rossi shrugged. "It is much easier to get the measure of a place when it is almost empty."

"I suppose..." She hesitated and he glanced at her, eyes narrowing. "I suppose Signora Giudicelli must have told you a lot about the Populaire."

"I have heard many stories, yes." A slight smile lurked around his thin lips as he turned his gaze to the ceiling, running over the ducts and cables that snaked across its surface before settling upon her face once more.. "I will be most interested to discover if they are true."

Christine did not like that smile; there was something cold and knowing about it. Feeling chilled despite the stuffiness of the corridors, she pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. Rossi must have noticed her discomfort as the smile widened briefly before he bowed sharply and continued on his way. She watched him walk into the shadows, heels clicking on the boards with almost military precision; only when he had disappeared around the corner did she allow herself to unlock her door and slip into her dressing room.

Once inside, it was some minutes before she felt safe enough to approach the mirror.

* * *

She had barely set down her bag and keys upon the hall table when Erik appeared from the music room, the visible side of his face creased in concern.

"Where have you been?" he demanded as she stumbled wearily into his arms. "I was about to come up and look for you."

Christine sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. "Don't; Signor Rossi is prowling about up there. I think he's looking for something and I don't trust him at all."

"Damn the man. Are we never to be left in peace?" He steered her into the library, sitting her down on the sofa, and dropped a kiss on top of her head before returning to the piano and the sheets of manuscript paper spread across it. He gathered up a handful, frowning at them for a few moments; apparently not satisfied he crushed them into a ball and aimed it towards the already overflowing waste paper basket. The ball hit the rim and bounced, glancing off one of the bookshelves and ending up at Christine's feet.

"What's this?" she asked, retrieving the sheets and uncurling them, smoothing them flat again on her knee. The staves were full of wild crossings out and rewritten notes, but she could follow the tune; it was a pretty, bouncing air, slow to start but gaining pace until it escalated into a blur of furious clashing chords, Erik's frustration writ large.

"Ideas for the new ballet." Running a hand through his hair he sank down on the piano stool. "I have a meeting with Reyer on Sunday evening; he has asked me to have supper with him."

Christine blinked in surprise. "You've been invited to Monsieur Reyer's house?"

"Is there a problem?" Erik enquired, lips pursing as he regarded her from the corner of his eye. "Do you think I will disgrace myself?"

"Not at all." Jumping up, she ran lightly over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind. He sighed and leaned into her embrace. "You are favoured indeed; I don't think anyone has ever seen the inside of Monsieur Reyer's home. He must like you."

"Well." Erik shrugged. "I am not altogether averse to the man."

"I'm also pleased that you are allowing yourself out into the world," Christine added, pecking him on the cheek. "You're doing so well."

"I didn't say that I had accepted the invitation."

"But you will, because you like Monsieur Reyer and you want to work with him," she said.

He peered up at her suspiciously. "Am I so very transparent?"

"Only to me," she assured him, letting go and sitting down on the stool beside him. There was barely enough room for them both and her skirts bunched up so much beneath her that it was like perching on top of an overstuffed cushion. Idly she picked out a simple tune, plunking up and down the keyboard.

Erik watched her for a while, and then, unable to remain uninvolved where music was concerned, he joined her, adding chords to her impromptu melody. His long white fingers moved across the keys almost carelessly, as though he could have played such an uncomplicated tune in his sleep. Christine reflected that such was probably the case. His hands were large enough to more than span an octave, making her own look delicate, almost childish, in comparison.

"Why were you so late coming down?" he asked quietly, taking the melody from her and turning it into something quite different. As the tempo slowed her bright little song became mournful, melancholy. "An encounter with Rossi can hardly have taken up all that time."

"I got pounced on by Madame Michon. And - " Christine hesitated, and he turned his head towards her, his eyebrow quirking. "Those journalists are still outside."

"Vermin." She hadn't thought it possible that someone could invest such disgust in a simple word, but Erik managed it. From his tone it was quite obvious what he would like to do to the men gathered outside the theatre. The piano produced a jarring, discordant sound as his hands came down hard upon the keys; he spun around to properly face her and the concern was suddenly back in his expression as he grasped her by the shoulders. "Are you all right? Did they accost you?"

"Yes, but I'm fine." After explaining how Jacques had come to her rescue, she added, "They were asking questions."

"Reporters usually do."

"I mean, they were asking about _you_, Erik."

"Let them." Releasing her, he reached for his music once more.

"They're suspicious. Because you're never seen outside the theatre, and hardly ever within it by anyone but the cast, they think..." Christine trailed off, looking down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap.

Slowly, Erik put the folder he had just picked up aside. The next moment his forefinger was touching her gently beneath the chin, raising her eyes to meet his. "What do they think?"

"They think you don't exist. Erik," she said when he snorted in amusement and returned to his work. "If they don't get some answers eventually they will create some ludicrous tale that could be worse than Augustine's accusations. Do you want the press to start making up stories about you?"

He shrugged. "Why should I care? People have been peddling lies about me my entire life. No one has ever been interested in the truth."

"I know." Christine sighed, resting a hand on his arm. "But just for once, wouldn't you like to change that? You deserve to be treated like everyone else, not as a curiosity or an animal in the zoo."

The green quill was between his fingers, scratching across the page. Though his tone was casual enough, Christine knew that the question he asked next was anything but. "I quite agree, my dear, but what exactly are you suggesting?"

"Maybe..." She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, eyes dropping to her lap once more. "You mentioned using the press to our advantage. Maybe we could _tell_ them the truth."


	37. Face The Press

**FACE THE PRESS**

"Are you quite mad?"

Erik leapt up from the piano stool; in two long strides he had reached the hearthrug and begun to pace. Christine watched him helplessly; she had known what sort of reaction her words were likely to provoke, but on the journey down to the fifth cellar she had become convinced that to be honest (at least partly) with the reporters would be the only way to be rid of them. Once they got what they wanted they would back off, but until then they would keep pushing, keep digging, and she didn't think she would be able to cope with that. Neither of them should be forced to spend their lives in hiding, for whatever reason.

"I've thought it through," she said. "We can just tell them the bare facts: who you are and where you come from. They don't need to know any more than that."

He rounded on her, and it took all her self-control not to jump. "Don't you see, dear girl, they will not be contented with the bare bones of a story. Sooner or later they will come back for more, they always do. Then what will we say? Shall we tell them of my years in the circus, or the time I spent being gawped at against my will by the paying public?" His voice was rising, but he appeared not to notice. "Maybe I should bring up the days I spent travelling in Persia and India; I'm sure those escapades would sell a few newspapers! The middle class Madames would faint over their breakfasts."

"If we continue with this silence then they will make up something just as bad!" Christine exclaimed. "They already are: Béringer's interview with Augustine will be just the start. You can dismiss his scribblings because they are printed in the gutter press, but if you continue to remain out of sight, sooner or later someone else will make the connection with the Phantom, someone with conviction that the public will believe!"

"I will be long gone before that happens." Erik turned away, stalking over to the marquetry cabinet beside the fireplace. Opening it he retrieved a crystal glass and decanter and poured himself a generous helping of cognac. Angry now, Christine followed, grabbing his sleeve before he could raise the glass to his mouth.

"I told you, I don't want to live my life as a fugitive. I won't go running away!" Desperately she leaned against him, her forehead resting on his chest. "I don't want you to either."

With a deep sigh, he stroked her hair. "And I refuse to be put on display for the jeers of the mob. I've done it more than once before and I won't go back."

"I'm not asking you to. This time it would be on your terms, not theirs." Christine looked up, trying to meet his eyes. The left one peered down at her, the right hidden by the shadow of his mask. "When I agreed to marry you your world became mine. I know it is difficult, but can you not do me the same courtesy?"

Erik swallowed. "Have I not already done enough to prove that to you?"

"You have done so much and you know that I am proud of you. But by emerging into the light you began a transformation that cannot be halted now." She wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him to her. "I don't want to see you existing somewhere between your world and mine; that would be no life at all."

There was a long pause, during which she could almost see and feel him thinking it over. Fear lurked in the depths of his eyes and she felt terrible about suggesting something that so obviously scared him. Despite her words, somewhere within her she wished that they could indeed run away together and live their lives far from the intrusion of other people, but her practical, rational side knew that such an escape was impossible. Even down here in the cellars they could only shut themselves out of the world for so long; sooner or later reality would make its presence known. A little voice in her head reminded her that Erik had spent over ten years within the confines of his own self-made kingdom, and there was nothing to stop him deciding that he would rather return to it and forsake the freedom he had tasted in favour of the safety the darkness offered. Nothing but her, that was.

"What do you suggest?" he asked finally.

"You'll do it?" He had been quiet for so long that Christine had almost allowed that little voice to convince her he would refuse.

Gently he untangled himself from her embrace and drew back, holding her tightly by the hands. "I will do it; for _you_. I cannot allow you to spend every day with those hounds at your heels, and if the only way to be rid of them is to throw them a bone, then I will do so."

"Thank you." Standing on tiptoes she kissed him. "It will be all right, you'll see."

Erik tried to smile but it went wrong, his lips twisting ruefully instead. "I wish I had your optimism." He sighed again. "So, my dear, where do we begin?"

Christine had thought of that, too. "We speak to Monsieur Marigny."

* * *

It felt ridiculous, creeping about the Opera when they could both walk quite openly through the corridors, but Christine had no desire to bump into anyone else who might delay them and possibly ask awkward questions as to why they were there on a supposed day off. Thankfully the administrative wing was free of curious souls; the various secretaries that dealt with the bureaucratic machinery which kept the theatre running were rarely interested in those who trod the boards. Strangely, the two worlds of the theatre hardly ever collided; Christine knew Monsieur Remy but she did not think she could put a name to any of the other officials who passed them with their heads bent over sheaves of paperwork. The passages were quiet but for the clattering of typewriters and the distant ringing of a telephone; she marvelled at the strange, strident bell which sounded as though it did not belong there.

"I've never heard one before," she whispered to Erik when he explained what it was.

"The march of progress," he said in a voice that dripped disapproval. "Dreadful things. Hell will freeze over before I allow one of them into my home."

Christine couldn't help giggling at that, and he looked affronted. "Sorry," she replied apologetically. "I was just trying to think who would need to telephone you. I suppose Madame might..."

"Dear God, the very thought of her being able to scold and lecture me whenever she chose is terrifying!" Erik shuddered theatrically. "I would never be rid of her!"

They had reached the managers' office and Christine tried very hard to pull her features back into some semblance of seriousness. She knocked quietly; there was no response and so Erik reached out, rapping sharply on the panel with his knuckles. After a pause Monsieur Marigny's somewhat distracted voice called for them to enter. Christine took a deep breath and opened the door.

Marigny was sitting at the big walnut desk, papers spread before him and pen in hand. It was a lovely pen; black and gilded, just like those she had looked at repeatedly in the window of an upmarket stationers with the intention of buying one for Erik. She wondered idly if such a thing would be suitable for a wedding gift. The manager looked up in surprise when Erik shut the door behind them with a click just loud enough to gain his attention.

"Mademoiselle Daae, Monsieur Claudin! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Marigny asked, putting down his pen and waving them both to the chairs that stood before the desk. "Has something happened that I should know about? Something _else_, I mean," he added, giving them a pointed look.

Christine and Erik exchanged a glance. "We apologise for not informing you of our change in circumstances, Monsieur," she said. "We - "

"We had not intended to make an announcement quite so soon," Erik continued smoothly. "Our hand was forced."

"Unintentionally," Christine put in, not wishing Meg to get the blame. Marigny frowned at them for a long moment and she found herself twisting the fringes of her shawl between her fingers, almost expecting a reprimand. They both knew that they should have told the managers before anyone else, in case it was thought that their engagement might affect the efficient running of the chorus, or that Erik might be guilty of favouritism towards her in the allocation of roles. Unfortunately, everything had happened so fast that neither of them remembered until it was too late and the news had travelled round the theatre.

"You needn't look so anxious, Mademoiselle Daae," Marigny said, jolting her out of her reverie. He smiled. "You are both adults and neither of you need to ask my permission. Congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you, Monsieur. And please also thank Monsieur Fontaine; the champagne he sent round to Mademoiselle Daae's dressing room on Friday was completely unexpected," Erik replied, adding, "As was the brandy I found in my office."

"I am both were of an excellent vintage; my colleague has access to an incomparable cellar. However, I do not think that you came here to discuss your impending nuptials with me." Marigny folded his hands on the blotter and regarded them seriously. "What can I do for you both?"

Erik looked at Christine. Christine looked at Erik. He scratched his head, grimacing. "May I ask, Monsieur, have you succeeded in ridding us of the journalists?"

Marigny's bald pate wrinkled in another frown. "No, I have not. The editors claim to have no control over their reporters and the authorities refuse to act unless one of them actually commits a breach of the peace," he said, sounding as annoyed as he looked. "Had I my way I would remove them all by the scruff of the neck and bar them from coming within a mile of the place but unfortunately the Opera needs publicity and such an action would not show us in a favourable light."

"We do feel rather responsible," Christine admitted. "It is after all because of us that they are hanging around."

"My goodness, do not blame yourself, Mademoiselle. If anyone is responsible it is Mademoiselle Albert; her adventures into print have drawn the gutter press to our door." Marigny made a noise that sounded very much like a growl. "I refuse to have the name of the Populaire dragged through the mud." The word 'again', which Christine was sure would have ended the sentence had he been speaking to anyone else, remained unspoken but it was there just the same.

Erik's gaze was fixed on his hands as he apparently struggled to choose the right words. Christine gently touched his shoulder and he shot her a grateful little smile. "Mademoiselle Daae and I have discussed the situation," he said. "It has become clear that these men are really after information about _me_. Christine seems to think that if we offer some they may leave."

The manager's frown deepened. "And what of your privacy? You told me that you were anxious to preserve it; speaking to the press will destroy any chance of that."

"I am aware of that, Monsieur. However, Mademoiselle Daae has been repeatedly accosted by them and I refuse to allow her to go through such an experience again."

"An admirable sentiment, and one with which I wholeheartedly agree. I expect my artistes and staff to be able to go about their business without harassment," said Marigny. He picked up his pen again, twirling it between his fingers. "How do you intend to bring such a situation about?"

"We hoped that you might be able to advise us," Christine answered honestly.

"Ah. I see." Marigny sat back in his chair. The pen tapped on one of the arms like a conductor's baton. After a moment's thought he said, "Well, in that case I advise you, Monsieur, to behave like an engaged man and escort Mademoiselle Daae home."

They both stared at him. "Monsieur, I hardly think that - " Erik began indignantly, starting out of his chair, but much to Christine's surprise the manager actually chuckled.

"Hold your horses, Claudin, I'm not finished," he said. "Sit down. I can in some way understand that the press are curious about you; no one has ever seen you, after all. You seem to creep about the building like a cat and hide in the shadows during a performance. Showing yourself to them voluntarily and in some mundane, ordinary action, might well be sensible. They can hardly create ludicrous stories if you actually walk amongst them and allow them to see that you are a normal man and not, as Mademoiselle Albert would have everyone believe, some crookbacked monster."

Resuming his seat Erik barked a harsh laugh. "I hardly think they will come to that conclusion."

Marigny blinked at him. "And why should they not? In all outward respects you look perfectly normal to me."

"What about this?" Erik waved a hand towards his mask. "You have seen what lies beneath, Monsieur; surely you cannot think that normal!"

"They don't need to know what you are hiding," Marigny told him and Christine tried to restrain a gasp of surprise at the revelation that Erik had actually removed his mask in front of the managers. He had not mentioned that to her. "Make up some story; tell them you were scarred in an accident, in a fire. You are an otherwise attractive fellow; put a romantic spin on it."

"You really think that is the wisest course of action, Monsieur?" Christine asked before Erik could protest, reaching over and taking his hand. She squeezed his fingers encouragingly.

Marigny nodded. "I do. And what's more, I'll accompany you to the front door to make sure it works."

* * *

"How many are there?"

"Ten... no, eleven." Christine turned from the window to look at Erik. He was adjusting his tie, fingers trembling and giving the only clue to the nerves she knew he must be feeling. Almost unconsciously he tugged down the brim of his hat to hide the mask as much as possible. "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

His jaw flexed and before he spoke she knew he was gritting his teeth. "Let's just get it over with. Please."

Jacques was still hanging around the foyer; this time he had acquired a bucket and mop and was half-heartedly slopping water onto the floor. When Marigny gave him a signal to open the door, Christine couldn't help wondering if the manager had stationed Jacques there deliberately to keep an eye on the mob of reporters outside. The old man ambled across and took hold of one of the handles, drawing the door slowly and inexorably towards him; a shaft of bright sunlight fell onto the black and white marble, momentarily dazzling those inside the building. There was a moment of silence and then the familiar shouts began again, voices calling her name as the journalists scrambled over each other to get closest to the doorway.

As they had agreed, she emerged first, steeling herself for the barrage of questions; she ignored them, pausing on the top step and glancing back to make sure that Erik was following. Marigny stepped out and her heart skipped a beat as she thought he might have changed his mind but she released the breath she hadn't even realised she was holding when Erik's tall, lean shadow fell across the threshold behind them.

At the sight of the imposing figure in his elegantly-cut grey suit, fedora tilted rakishly to one side, the reporters quite suddenly went quiet. Erik stood there, looking around him and quite obviously trying to keep the contempt he felt from showing on his face. Emotions warred on the undamaged side briefly before his expression settled into the stoic, almost blank look Christine knew so well. It was as though he had dropped a figurative mask over his visible features to match the real one. He regarded the little crowd on the steps with cold eyes before turning to Christine and offering her his arm. They descended halfway without incident, the journalists parting like courtiers before the approach of royalty, and then the moment was spoiled when someone called out,

"Monsieur Claudin? Monsieur Claudin! Have you anything to say about the accusations Augustine Albert made last week in _Le Figaro_?"

Erik's lips twitched, but he replied calmly, "I have no comment to make upon the matter."

"Mademoiselle Albert's opinion is hers alone. The Opera Populaire takes no responsibility for her views," Marigny added, the words rolling easily from his tongue as though he made statements to the press every day.

Another journalist held up a hand. "Monsieur Claudin, how long have you known Mademoiselle Daae and how do you feel about marrying her in light of her recent broken engagement to the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Mademoiselle Daae has been my pupil for the last six years," Erik said, tensing at the mention of Raoul's name. Christine unobtrusively stroked his arm, trying to relax the muscles that were coiled there like steel rope. "Her previous engagement and its end are her affair and not my concern."

"Why has no one ever reported seeing you at the Opera before the only performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_?" enquired a small man in a tweed suit with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. "I understand that you stepped into the breach when both Signor Piangi and his understudy were taken ill."

So that was the story they had given out, Christine thought as Erik, his voice clearly showing that he was rapidly losing patience, replied, "Mademoiselle Daae invited me to attend, and as I already knew the libretto I did my best to try and salvage the production. Until then I had no reason to frequent the theatre."

"And now?"

"Now I am employed by Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine. The situation is quite different."

"We are delighted to have been able to engage a man of Monsieur Claudin's exceptional talent to direct the chorus of the Opera Populaire," Marigny said. Half of the reporters were scribbling furiously in their notebooks; the others were waving and shouting out, with no intention of waiting their turn. Once voice, louder than all of them and horribly familiar, asked,

"Why do you really wear the mask, Monsieur?"

At the back of the group, leaning on a lamppost, a cigar dangling from his fingers, was Francois Béringer. Upon seeing him Erik took a step forwards, his hands clenching into fists, but Christine pulled him back. The visible side of his face dark with anger, Erik said, his voice dangerously soft, "Because, as it seems the whole of Paris now knows, my face is quite horribly scarred, Monsieur. Not that it is any of your business."

Grinning and either oblivious or uncaring of Erik's fury, Béringer straightened slightly, tipping back his hat. "Will you remove it and let us see for ourselves?"

The other journalists watched the exchange in silence. Erik had drawn himself up to his full, imposing height; slipping his arm from Christine's he stalked down the remaining steps towards Béringer, approaching slowly and deliberately, much as he had done the night of the New Year masquerade in the guise of Red Death. When he was barely a foot from the reporter he stopped, lifting his head and allowing Béringer full view of his mask.

"No, Monsieur, I will not." He looked the man up and down, taking in the crumpled, garishly checked suit, the far from clean linen and the way Béringer stood, favouring his left leg. "Will you take down your trousers and show us all the injury to your knee? I'm sure it would be most illuminating."

A smatter of laughter rippled round the group. Béringer's features twisted in fury. "Are you the Phantom of the Opera?" he demanded, his voice emerging rather high and tight as his face reddened in embarrassment.

"For pity's sake, man, you harped on about that in your pathetic little article and you have been harassing my staff about it ever since. You are obsessed!" exclaimed an exasperated Marigny from the top of the stairs before Erik could open his mouth. "Once and for all, there _is_ no Phantom of the Opera! That is my official statement on the matter."

"Mademoiselle Daae." Christine, left alone halfway up the stairs as the reporters followed Erik, turned at the hesitant voice behind her and found a young man, smartly, if rather shabbily, dressed standing there. He offered her a hopeful smile and a yellow rose and said, "I wanted to give this to you earlier; I came to the stage door but this lot had beaten me to it. I tried to tell them they should leave you in peace but they wouldn't have it."

"Thank you." She accepted the flower and his smile widened. "I'm very grateful to you for trying."

"Monsieur Marigny, would you care to elaborate upon that statement?" the man in the tweed suit asked, leading the gaggle of journalists back up the steps. Christine and her new acquaintance had to move aside quickly to avoid being knocked down.

"No, I would not," the manager snapped. "Now clear off, the lot of you. This is private property and if you're not gone in the next thirty seconds I'll call the gendarmes and have you arrested for loitering!"

"I know you don't want to talk to reporters," the young man said quickly as, grumbling and reluctant but armed at last with a story, the other journalists began to disperse. Béringer was first to slink away, shooting Erik a glare of pure hatred that was returned in kind. "But if you change your mind..." He held out a slightly battered calling card. Christine took it, opening her mouth to ask his name, but he just smiled again and tipped his hat to her, slipping into the constantly-shifting pedestrian traffic of the Place de l'Opera. She looked down at the card and the legend printed there:

Didier Tolbert

_Investigative Journalist._

"Christine, are you all right?" Erik asked gently, and she jumped, tucking the card away in her purse.

"I'm fine," she said, trying to spot Monsieur Tolbert again but he had vanished. She turned back to her fiancé and smiled. "Shall we go home?"


	38. Man's Best Friend

**MAN'S BEST FRIEND**

"There's a gypsy fair in town," Hortense announced gleefully. "I saw a poster on my way here. They have tumblers and magicians... even a man who breathes fire!"

Giselle clapped her hands together in delight. "Oh, how wonderful! Shall we go?"

"Of course!" The other ballerina tossed her hair, the white ribbon that held back the curls fluttering. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. There was a very good-looking man with the one handing out flyers and I had a little chat with him. He said he's in charge and that if we come and find him when we arrive as a favour to me he'll let us in for nothing!"

"And did he tell you what you'd have to do in return for this 'favour'?" asked Meg, glancing up from the pointe shoe she was repairing. "No one like that ever does anything for free."

Hortense scowled. "You're so prim and proper, Meg. Don't you ever have any fun?"

"Plenty. I just choose not to have it with unsavoury characters from travelling fairs," Meg retorted, adding when her colleague's expression darkened, "Come on, Hortense, this is the sort of thing Maman is always warning us against. If you are too free with people they will take advantage."

"Oh, stop being so fusty. I think it's a marvellous idea, Hortense," said Dorothée, and the other ballet rats nodded in agreement. "When did you have in mind?"

Pleased to have a captive audience, Hortense sat down, shooting Meg a glare. "I was thinking tonight. There's no performance and Grigore – that's his name, you know – told me that they have a special show on. He said it's delightfully gruesome: there's a man with no eyes and two women joined at the head who sing and dance and a little boy who's no more than eight inches tall!"

"What rubbish," muttered Meg. Christine, who had been reading in the corner, drawn into the dancers' lounge to keep her friend company, stared at Hortense in horror.

"How can you even think of attending such a show?" she demanded, images of Erik locked in a cage and forced to sing, enduring the jeers and abuse of the audience, flashing across her mind's eye. "Think of those poor people; how must they feel, imprisoned in a sideshow just so that someone like you can find amusement in their plight?"

Hortense pulled a face, to the amusement of some of the other girls. "Since Christine became engaged to a freak she can't help but feel sorry for them," she said, drawing gasps from one or two, and turned to the outraged soprano. "Those people aren't doing it against their will, you know. It's their job."

"How do you know that?" Meg asked before Christine could respond. "Did your new friend tell you?"

"As a matter of fact he did, but it's common knowledge, Meg. Everyone knows that nobody but the fair owners would employ people like that," Hortense replied scornfully.

Christine stared at the dark-haired ballerina and shook her head sadly. "Have you no pity for them, Hortense?" she asked.

"Why should I? They are lucky to have food in their mouths and a roof over their heads, after all; they could just as easily be begging on the streets or starving to death in the gutter," Hortense declared, and was rewarded with nodding heads and murmurs of agreement from the other ballet rats. "It's those of us who attend the fairs that keep them safe and warm with our money."

Meg snorted. "And how much will you be contributing towards their welfare by sneaking in for nothing?"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Christine said, her fingers clenching around her book so hard that she realised she'd made deep indentations in the leather binding with her nails. It was one of Erik's, borrowed from his extensive library; she hoped he wouldn't be cross with her for damaging the cover. With a great effort she relaxed her hold and drew in a wobbly breath. "I thought that we were more enlightened than this, especially here. To listen to you talk anyone would think we were back in the middle ages! Going to stare at people trapped in cages for amusement...!"

"Oh, don't exaggerate, Christine." Dorothée waved a dismissive hand. "Whoever heard of anyone locked in a cage? These are people, not animals, and they're displaying themselves because they want to, not because they're prisoners!"

Hortense snorted. "Maybe she thinks the fair owners have come for Monsieur Claudin."

Christine hugged the book to her and looked round at them. It was as though she was seeing those she had once regarded as friends with completely fresh eyes, looking through them to lay their prejudices bare. She did not find it a pleasant experience. "I used to think I was naïve," she said softly, "but you have absolutely no idea what you are talking about." Turning on her heel she left the room and the group of puzzled ballerinas behind.

* * *

"There are gypsies in town," Christine said later as she and Erik were walking through the twilit streets towards her flat. She felt his hand tense in hers, gripping her fingers, but he said nothing. "The ballet rats are attending the fair. They have... human oddities on display."

"That is hardly unusual," he replied after a long pause, his voice tight. "If there was a paying audience for it they would probably bring back burning at the stake."

"The girls seemed convinced that the people in those sideshows were there through choice, that it was how they earned their living. How could anyone take such a view?"

Erik shrugged. "In truth, the majority of them are indeed there because it keeps them fed and clothed. If a deformity is too severe the fairs are the only places that will take them; often their families will make a deal with the showman when the afflicted one is a child and the travelling community will take them in for a fee." He looked down at his shoes, obviously uncomfortable. "There are very few working class parents who wish to have a disfigured child; they are a drain on the family finances when if they were whole and healthy they could contribute through finding employment."

"Erik..." She hesitated, not sure whether asking the question was a good idea but feeling compelled to after all that had been said that afternoon. "When you were travelling with the fair... Madame Giry said something about a cage..."

"Ah." Raising his gaze he met her eyes and she could see the shame lurking there, just below the surface. "I did wonder if she had mentioned our first encounter to you. I confess that I do not recall it but then there were so many faces... I did my best to forget them."

They had stopped walking; realising that they were only a few blocks from her home Christine tugged on his hand, leading him round the corner and towards a little park. It wasn't much, just a few trees and a handful of bushes laid out around a tiny fountain but it was secluded and empty. There was a bench set to one side and they took a seat; Erik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands loosely between them. Now that the subject had been broached he seemed unable to look at her, concentrating his attention instead on the fountain and the stream of water as it trickled gently into a stone bowl.

"Why did they lock you up?" Christine asked gently.

"Because they had no other way of keeping me there," he replied. "Most freaks are obtained as children; outside the fairs very few reach adulthood. They are either shunned by friends and family or are born weak and their ailments are left untreated because the doctors are too horrified to help. To find someone with a face like mine, fully grown and apparently sound in wind and limb, was too much of a temptation."

She laid a hand on his arm, rubbing it in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "How did you..?"

"They came to me first. I was trying to earn a little extra money on my return from India and so I was singing for my supper on street corners in the evenings, taking advantage of the shadows to hide my mask. The owner of the fair, a great brute with a black beard called Dumitru, divining what I was concealing behind it, offered me a wage and a minimal share of the takings if I would join them and display my face. I refused." Erik drew in a shuddering breath and sat up straight, about to get to his feet. "It's late and I must get you home. You don't want to hear this story."

Christine held him back. "No, please, I do."

"You really want to know how the man you are going to marry lived as an animal for almost two years?" His eyes flashed and he looked away again. "You will be disgusted with me."

"I won't." She touched his unmasked cheek, stroking the delicate skin just below his eye socket with her thumb. "No matter what you tell me, I will never think any less of you. Please; I want to know who you are, what you did before we met."

Erik sighed. "The story is not a pretty one. You will find no fairytales in my past, Christine."

She frowned. "Do you really think me such a child still, that I cannot handle the truth?" she asked.

His mismatched gaze was hopelessly sad. "I don't want to drive you away."

"You won't." Christine took his hand again, interlacing her fingers with his. "Please tell me."

His eyes darted from her and then back again as though he was fighting with himself. Eventually he nodded. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, the tone level. "Late one evening I repaired to a tavern at the low end of town. It was not exactly a salubrious establishment but it was dark and no one asked questions. I situated myself in a quiet corner with a drink and counted my takings, thinking about my next move; I had a little money saved but no home and no one was likely to offer me a job even though I had been working as an architect in Venice and then in Persia. I could have presented myself at the stage door of one of the less-prestigious theatres but I knew from experience that should I somehow manage to gain an audition I would be laughed off the stage. While I sat there I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I did not realise someone had switched my drink for another."

"One of the gypsies?"

"If they were there when I entered I failed to notice them. On my travels from the East I picked up a nasty infection which became pneumonia and incapacitated me for quite some time; I was still weak when I reached Paris and so my senses were not working at full capacity. My thirst overcame me and I took a long draught from the glass, not realising until I had swallowed that the taste was wrong." Erik's free hand clenched into a fist on his knee and his face contorted at the memory. "Before I knew it my mind was fuddled and I could barely sit up straight. I smelt something sweet and sickly; a moment later a cloth was shoved over my face and I was falling into darkness. When I awoke I was lying in filthy straw on the floor of an iron cage; I could hear the squeaking of cartwheels and from the shuddering motion it was obvious I was moving but I could see nothing for the cage was covered with a tarpaulin. My belongings had been taken and there was no sign of my mask."

"Oh, my... they abducted you?" Christine felt tears spring into her eyes and she flung an arm around his neck, pulling him close to her. "How could anyone treat a fellow human being in such a way?"

"They saw in me a money-spinner and had no intention of losing it. Of course, now that I was there against my will they had no obligation to pay me which made the deal even sweeter for them." By now the even tone had been lost; his voice was low and hoarse and his body shook against hers. "For nearly two years I was forced to show my face, performing as the Living Corpse. They allowed me my violin when it became clear that the paying public were fascinated by my singing; at first I refused to do so but Dumitru and his henchmen made it clear that any dissention would not be tolerated when they beat me unconscious more than once. And if my performance did not meet their expectations there was always... well, you've seen my scars."

She hardly wanted to voice the words that were on her tongue but they emerged by their own volition. "A whip...?"

He did not deny it. "You can see why I had to escape."

"Oh, Erik." Christine laid her head on his shoulder. "You have suffered so much. If only I could have been there - "

"You were just a child, my dear, and far away in Sweden. What could you have done?" He stroked her hair tenderly. "But I thank you for your compassion."

"How - " Her voice caught in a hiccup as she tried to swallow the sob that threatened to break from her chest. "How _did_ you escape that vile place?"

Erik seemed to have recovered some of his composure, and his expression was calm when he drew back slightly so that he could see her face. He wiped away the single tear which clung to her lashes with one long finger. Somewhere nearby a clock chimed the hour. "That is a story for another day. I have upset you quite enough."

"Erik - "

He shook his head. "Not now. Please, Christine, allow me a little time. I will tell you, but I need... I need to think."

"Of course." She squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry; I did not mean to push you."

"You are curious, and quite right to be so." Erik smiled lopsidedly. "I cannot blame you. But, Christine, please promise me something."

"Anything. You know that you may ask anything of me."

His face became serious. "Promise me that you will go nowhere near that fair. I cannot bear the thought of you in close proximity to something so... so..." He struggled to find the words, trailing off in frustration.

"I promise," Christine said and the smile returned. He nodded, getting to his feet; their hands were still entwined and so he helped her to stand, drawing her from her seat with his usual grace.

"Now, we really must go; I should have had you home an hour ago. We have a busy day tomorrow and you must be well rested."

Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her from the garden, tucking her hand through his arm. They had only gone three paces, however, when a sudden noise made her stop, listening, forcing him to do the same. "Can you hear that?" she asked.

"Hear what?" He listened, too, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he was humouring her. His lips twitched slightly in annoyance.

"There it is again!" It was a high-pitched whine, and as she strained to catch the sound she realised that it was coming from beneath the bench upon which they had just been sitting. Disentangling herself from Erik Christine jogged back to the seat and crouched, trying to see underneath. It was too dark; the sun was almost beneath the horizon and neither of them had brought a lamp. She waved her hand blindly into the space but found nothing.

Erik sighed, impatiently this time. "Christine, it is probably a child in a neighbouring street; there are bound to be plenty of them in this area and sound carries on nights such as these."

"Whatever it is sounds as though it is in distress. Oh, Erik, come and help me look; we can't leave it. It could be a child in trouble – would you leave them if you could do something to help?"

"Yes," he said bluntly.

"I don't believe that," she told him and he shook his head, returning to her side. Taking off his hat he knelt, grimacing at the dust and dirt he would be getting on his expensive trousers, and peered beneath the bench. His eyes were more attuned to dim light than Christine's and she gave a little cry of joy when he reached into the shadows and withdrew a burlap sack with a knot tied in the top. It was old and muddy, wearing through in places, but what made her jump was the fact that the sack was wriggling, undulating as the creature inside tried desperately to fight its way out. The whining became a very definite barking as Erik put it carefully down on the stone paving and began to work on the knot, his musician's fingers deftly loosening the fastening. The dog – for so it must be – evidently sensed its incipient freedom and began to writhe even more, its yapping getting louder and more excited.

Erik gave the sack a hard look. "Be quiet," he commanded, and much to Christine's surprise the dog fell silent and the bag ceased to move as though it were sitting there patiently awaiting its release. After a few more moments the knot came free and Erik opened the sack; a bedraggled ball of chocolate brown hair and sharp teeth all but flew out, hurling itself towards its saviour, tail wagging furiously. Erik, thrown off balance by this onslaught, had to fling out a hand to catch himself before he tumbled over backwards and got dust all over his posterior as well as his knees.

"It's a spaniel!" Christine cried, recognising the distinctive long, curly ears amongst the animal's matted and overgrown coat. Carefully, so as not to startle it, she reached out and rested a hand lightly on its back. When she was not thrown off, she gently stroked along its spine, feeling the muscles beneath the ragged hair, and the dog turned its untidy head, rough pink tongue licking her hand. She laughed. "Well, he's certainly friendly! It is a boy, isn't it?" she asked Erik, who smirked.

"Very definitely," he replied, and she blushed.

"He's adorable. Don't you think so?"

"Oh, absolutely," Erik said, sounding less than enthusiastic. He raised an eyebrow as the spaniel, forepaws resting on the Phantom's knee and struggling for purchase on the fabric of his trouser leg, wobbled. It barked sharply, stretching up and trying to lick his face. Amused, Christine scooped the dog up, holding it close and rubbing it behind the ears.

"Why should anyone want to dump something so helpless?" she wondered.

Frowning, Erik touched the dog's wet pink nose with the tip of his finger. "Presumably his owner either couldn't or wouldn't take care of him. Perhaps they intended to throw the bag into the river but were unable to go through with it."

The spaniel gave a yap, which Christine took to be agreement. "That's appalling!"

"Life is not pleasant," Erik said, his tone clipped. He climbed to his feet, brushing dirt and dog hair from his knees. "Put him down now; we really must be going."

"Erik, we can't leave him!" she exclaimed. "Where will he go? Where will he sleep tonight?"

"We can hardly check him into a hotel! He will be fine; dogs instinctively know how to fend for themselves."

"You're thinking of cats. Dogs are pack animals; they need someone to tell them what to do," Christine said, standing up with the spaniel still in her arms. It was wriggling again, trying to jump out into empty space to get to Erik; she grabbed it clumsily before it could fall. "I won't leave him here all alone. Should we take him to a police station?"

"I doubt if the person who abandoned him will be anxious to have him back. If you are insisting upon finding him a new home perhaps someone at the Opera - " Erik began to suggest but she cut him off, eyes shining with a sudden idea.

"Erik, you could take him!" she cried, beaming at the thought. He needed companionship beneath the theatre when she could not be there and all those tunnels would give plenty of exercise. It was a perfect solution!

Erik backed away, horror writ large upon the unmasked side of his face. "No. Absolutely not."

"It would be perfect," Christine insisted. The spaniel barked again, lunging towards him once more. "See how he already likes you!"

"If you are so set on the idea, _you_ take him," he said folding his arms.

"Don't be so ridiculous. You know perfectly well that Madame Lafarge does not allow pets. Oh, come on, Erik, can you not see the sense of it?" She nuzzled the dog, rubbing her nose against the silky waves of its ear, and looked up at him with her most soulful expression. Erik stared at her and she fluttered her eyelashes for good measure. "You know what it is like to be abandoned; would you make him suffer the same fate?"

His mouth twitched. "That is verging on emotional blackmail, my dear. Where did you learn such tricks?"

"I had instruction from a master. Will you take him?"

Erik threw up his hands in defeat. "Oh, very well. But only temporarily," he added firmly. "You must find him a proper home as soon as possible."

"Of course. Thank you, Erik." Christine leaned up and kissed him, then lifted the spaniel so that it could lick his cheek, which it did enthusiastically, running its tongue over his mask as well. "What shall we call him?"

"He has a collar," Erik pointed out, looking slightly uncomfortable with such unbridled affection, even if it was from a dog. "Perhaps he already has a name."

Christine felt rather silly. She lifted the little brass tag between her forefinger and thumb, squinting at the copperplate engraving. "His name is Bruno," she announced, and looked down into the spaniel's liquid brown eyes. "Bon Soir, Bruno."

"Bon Nuit would be more appropriate. It must be nearly eleven o'clock." Erik took her gently by the arm, steering her out of the garden. Without seeming to he hurried her through the few streets remaining until they were suddenly standing in front of her apartment building. A net curtain twitched on the ground floor and Christine knew it would be her landlady; Madame Lafarge was a nosy woman who liked to keep a sharp eye on all her tenants. On the steps she passed Bruno to her fiancé, making sure that he had a firm hold on the dog.

"You will look after him, won't you?" she asked, moving his hand so that it cradled the spaniel's hindquarters. Almost unconsciously the fingers of his other hand scratched Bruno's shaggy head and the dog gave a contented growl.

"I shall treat him like royalty, I promise. And after this I expect to see you bright and early for your lesson before rehearsal begins," Erik said sternly. "We have barely started work on Rosalinde."

Christine curtsied. "But of course, maestro. And we must not neglect the role I am actually to play." Smiling she kissed him on the nose and then did the same to Bruno. "Goodnight, boys. Sleep well!"

As she climbed the steps and opened the door she turned to see them both watching her with identical surprised expressions. Stuffing a hand into her mouth to hide the giggles that welled up she headed inside and towards the four flights of stairs that led to her flat. She tried to hold on to the image; perhaps it would banish those dreams she sometimes had of the man she loved battered and broken behind impenetrable bars.

She certainly hoped so.


	39. Supper Party

**SUPPER PARTY**

It did not take Erik long to regret promising to look after Bruno. About six hours, in fact.

He was awoken from a restless sleep by a scratching at his bedroom door and opened it to find the dog sitting there, looking up at him trustingly and whining to be let out. Though he had little experience of animals, Erik knew enough to recognise that the request was rather urgent and so a few minutes later he was standing on the edge of Lake Averne, pulling his dressing gown tightly around him to combat the chill of the cellars and watching Bruno as he nosed around for an interminably long time before settling down to take care of his business. From there the two of them repaired to the kitchen, where Erik discovered that he had very little in the larder to tempt the appetite of a spaniel. It was the Old Mother Hubbard situation all over again. Bruno whined some more, obviously hungry, and Erik cursed Christine for putting him in such a ludicrous position. By the time she arrived for her lesson Bruno was stretched out on the hearthrug chewing on one of Erik's best slippers and the Phantom himself was very close to losing the last shred of – admittedly already very thin - patience he possessed.

Much to his annoyance, Christine found his trials and tribulations highly amusing. She had brought a bag full of treats for the dog, as well as a strong brush for his matted hair and a very large and very smelly bone, upon which the creature fell with gusto, leaving trails of drool and bits of meat past their best all over the floor. It was some time before Erik managed to coax Christine away from Bruno and over to the piano where he had already laid out Rosalinde's Act I aria, as well as Adele's 'Laughing Song' from the ball in Act II. Though Christine was playing the latter part, it was his intention that she should be perfect in the lead should she be needed to take over from Theodora Merriman. Unfortunately, they had only begun to warm up when Bruno made his opinion quite clear by throwing back his head and howling like a banshee as soon as Christine hit any note higher than middle C.

They stopped, waited for the spaniel to calm down and resume gnawing upon his bone, only for the infernal noise to begin again as soon as Christine opened her mouth. Erik slammed his hands down upon the keyboard and shot the dog a glare that could have reduced anything in its path to a pile of ashes, but instead of quavering under its onslaught Bruno simply lay back down and continued with his meal. Christine hid her smile behind her hand, sobering the instant Erik turned towards her; she couldn't disguise the laughter dancing in her eyes, however.

"Don't be so cross," she told him, crouching beside Bruno and stroking his curly head. "He'll get used to it in time."

"We do not have time to spare!" Erik exclaimed. "I have humoured you so far, Christine, but a proper home must be found and as quickly as possible. I have work to do and am not going to alter my routine because of a dog!"

With a sigh she agreed to ask around and find out if anyone on the cast or crew would be willing to take Bruno on. In the meantime Erik was forced to lock the dog in the kitchen for the duration of the morning rehearsal; Christine protested but he put his foot down, declaring that he was not about to give the animal the run of the house and return to find a trail of destruction. Bruno whined and howled and pawed at the door, Christine protested and looked about to cry but Erik forced his heart to be of stone and ushered her out to where the gondola waited on the inky waters of the lake.

* * *

Things were no better above ground.

Rehearsal was a shambles. Augustine Albert had evidently decided not to return, but as Erik and Reyer tried between them to work out some basic blocking the cast became restless and Madame Giry decided to choose that moment to complain about the lack of ballet music to open Act II. It was obvious that to write such an important piece inside a week would be a tall order; Erik might have managed it himself, left alone with his piano and no interruptions, but as he had a new production to direct, a sudden engagement, a tussle with the press and now a dog to contend with his mind had not be entirely upon his work. Reyer looked exhausted and he could only assume that the other man was having similar problems.

"What, precisely, do you expect me to do while we wait for inspiration to strike?" Antoinette demanded, quite obviously tired and strained herself if the bags beneath her eyes were anything to go by. "My ballerinas cannot sit around twiddling their thumbs!"

Goaded, Erik rounded on her and snapped, "Perhaps, Madame, you should all take up knitting. The scolds around the guillotine found it useful to pass the time!"

There were several gasps of shock from those nearby and Erik regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth but it was too late to take them back. Madame looked as though she would like to slap him, face black with anger before she spun on her heel and stalked away, rounding up her petit rats and ordering them into line. Resentfully they went, shooting Erik several glares as they were made to go over basic movements yet again.

"Dear God, we have to do something, and soon, before blood is shed!" Reyer said, wiping his forehead with a huge spotted handkerchief. It was overly warm in the auditorium, and the heat was not helping frayed tempers one bit. "Have you nothing with which we may be able to work?"

Erik grimaced. "One or two pieces that I put aside some time ago, but they will need a great deal of polishing and we do not have the time."

"At least there is no rehearsal tomorrow. If you are willing to bring anything and everything you have that might do when you come for supper on Sunday I will do the same. Perhaps we will find something suitable."

"I hope so, Monsieur. If we don't, I think they may lynch the pair of us, and Antoinette will be in the lead!"

Despite his consternation Reyer chuckled. "Of course, I was forgetting that she is your cousin. Tell me: is she just as forthright at home?"

"Worse. She sees no reason to mince her words and will say _exactly_ what she thinks. I sometimes - " Erik broke off, his keen ears picking up a peculiar sound.

Reyer frowned; he had evidently heard it as well. "What the devil is that?" he asked.

The noise, a kind of ethereal wailing, became slightly louder as though the creature behind it had suddenly put in a greater effort to be heard. Erik met Christine's eyes across the stage and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head which he hoped would convey the words he didn't like to voice aloud: _It's not me_. Antoinette looked sharply in his direction as well and he just shrugged, knowing that even if he did protest she would be unlikely to believe him.

It wasn't long before everyone had heard it and were muttering amongst themselves. Some threw fearful glances over their shoulders, the more superstitious of the cast making the sign of the cross. The ballerinas, as always, were the source of most of this activity and, as expected, Giselle, the most brainless of the bunch in Erik's opinion, squealed, "It's the Phantom! He's back!"

"Giselle, be quiet you foolish girl!" Madame Giry ordered, but the dancer shook her head.

"It must be him, Madame! What else could make such a sound? Ooh, it's sending shivers down my spine!" Giselle's huge blue eyes roved around the auditorium. "Do you suppose he intends to curse _this_ opera?"

Madame's face was furious, and she brought down her cane on the boards just inches from Giselle's feet. "There is very little worth cursing here," she said sharply. "Kindly concentrate what meagre brainpower you have on giving me a dozen tons de cuisse – _now_!"

"Perhaps the management should employ the services of an exorcist," Signor Rossi suggested to no one in particular, raising an eyebrow.

There were giggles from the corps de ballet as Giselle scuttled off to do as she was told, watched over by a very angry Antoinette. Reyer made his excuses and went to speak to the violin section; in his absence Christine crossed to Erik's side, fanning herself with one hand. The humidity had made her curls droop, and they stuck untidily to her forehead. Erik realised that he found the heightened colour in her cheeks rather attractive and tried not to look at them.

"Is that noise what I think it is?" she asked quietly.

"Of course," he replied. "What could it be but that damned dog? I knew we should have left him where he was; he's nothing but trouble!"

"Oh, Erik." Christine tried to pull her lips away from the smile that kept wanting to turn them upwards but failed miserably. "He's in a new place; it's all very scary and confusing for him. He doesn't understand."

"And he won't have time to learn. I mean it, Christine; I want him out of here as soon as possible. The last thing I need is that animal revealing the location of my home."

She sighed. "Yes, you're right, of course. But don't take it out on him, please. He doesn't know any better."

The howling came again, travelling up through the air pipes and conduits that led the chimney for the stove to the surface. Shutting Bruno in the kitchen had obviously not been a good idea; Erik cursed himself for not thinking of it at the time. He groaned. "Christine, the things I do for you..."

* * *

He was still ruminating on why he found it so impossible to refuse her two days later, en route to Monsieur Reyer's modest home a few streets from the Opera.

The theatre had been Eugène Reyer's life for nearly thirty years; like many of the older members of the company he had transferred to the Populaire from the old Opera House, becoming in that time as much of an institution there as the statue of Apollo on the roof or the chandelier that glittered over the auditorium. Even though Erik had been watching and listening within those walls for more than a decade himself he still found that he knew very little about the musical director. Reyer was not one to reveal much, quiet and somewhat reserved away from the stage. Erik had no idea whether he was even married. True, he had shown a rather shy interest in Antoinette at the masquerade, but he would not be the first happily married man to look at another woman.

Though he had wanted to, Erik found that leaving Bruno behind while he took up the first invitation to supper he had ever received was not an option. In his absence during the rehearsal the dog had done its best to turn the kitchen upside down, pulling crockery from cupboards, scratching at the paintwork and leaving an unpleasant little gift in the scullery. Thankfully the kitchen was not a room in which Erik spent that much time and the damage was not desperate, but he was extremely glad he had not thought to lock the spaniel in the parlour or, thank God, the music room. Christine could not take him, and Antoinette refused point blank, so he now found himself tugging on the lead Christine had brought, trying to divert the animal's attention from whatever he found so interesting in the pile of muddy straw at the side of the road.

When he eventually had Bruno's head pointing in the right direction he bent down, making sure the dog was looking at him. Feeling ridiculous, he said sternly, "You are to be on your best behaviour tonight, do you understand me? If you cause me any kind of embarrassment I will put you out into the tunnels and tell Christine I found you a home with Madame Michon's second cousin." Bruno gazed up at him with limpid brown eyes that unaccountably reminded him of Christine at her most persuasive moments and whined. "And you needn't think you can get round me like that," Erik told him, straightening and taking a firmer grip on the lead.

He reached the house in the Rue de Choiseul and knocked tentatively on the door. This kind of thing was entirely out of his experience, being invited to the home of a... could he call Reyer more than an acquaintance? The man was a colleague, certainly, but Erik was not sure if he could truthfully call him 'friend'. For the first time he was conscious of what an invitation to supper actually meant and his fingers stole automatically to his mask and the twisted, bloated mouth beneath it. Christine might insist that such things did not matter, but Erik knew perfectly well that they did. The dreadful spectacle of him eating was not something he wished to inflict upon someone whose opinion he found he valued and respected; he turned away, pulling a confused Bruno with him, suddenly determined to return home and send back a note with his excuses.

Before he had gone ten paces, however, the dark green door opened behind him and a female voice called out, "Monsieur Claudin?"

Erik stopped, glancing over his shoulder to see a small, plump woman in a big white apron, a little lace cap covering her silver curls, standing on the threshold, in the middle of drying her hands. Her cheeks were rosy, and the smile that lit up her pudgy face was one of apparent delight. She beckoned to him and he found himself moving towards her without even realising.

"It's all right, you haven't mistaken the house; I was just putting a pie into the oven for tomorrow," she said, stepping back to allow him into the hall. Erik ventured hesitantly inside, Bruno at his heels. The woman caught sight of the dog and her eyebrows rose.

"My apologies, Madame, I couldn't leave him at home," Erik said quickly as Bruno sat down at her feet, tail wagging and long pink tongue lolling from his mouth. "If you wish I will tie him up outside - "

"No, no, I won't hear of it!" she exclaimed, bending to pet the dog. "Eugène never mentioned that you would bringing company."

"I did not have time to tell him; I... acquired this animal only recently."

Bruno was lapping up the attention, barking delightedly at the scratch behind the ears he was being given. "Well, I'm sure I have something in the kitchen for him," the woman said, smiling. She straightened and offered a hand. "You needn't call me Madame; I'm Henriette, Eugène's sister."

Though there was no outward obvious resemblance, Erik could see traces of Reyer's sharp features around the eyes and nose, traces that were reinforced when the man himself emerged from a side room and welcomed Erik with open arms. Away from the Opera Reyer looked relaxed, wrapped in a velvet smoking jacket with a tasselled cap perched on his head, a far cry from the tartar of the stage. His face was wreathed in smiles.

"Monsieur Claudin, I'm so glad you came. Come in, come and sit down," he said, ushering Erik into a little sitting room. There were two armchairs before the empty hearth and a well-maintained upright piano in the corner. Bruno headed straight for the rug and curled up upon it, resting his head on his paws and closing his eyes. A moment later Erik was seated with a glass of cognac in his hand and feeling some of the tension that had appeared when he reached the front door evaporate.

"You cannot imagine how much this means to me," Reyer remarked after they had been sitting in companionable silence for a while. "There are very few people with whom I can truly discuss music."

Erik raised an eyebrow and inclined his head towards the closed door. "Your sister - ?"

"Henriette is a treasure but unfortunately she has no understanding of the love of my life. The poor girl is completely tone deaf," the musical director said sadly. "I did manage to get her a complimentary ticket to the _Marriage of Figaro _a few years ago – a seat up in the Gods but the production was sublime – and she left halfway through, unable to stand the noise."

"Unfortunate."

"She supports me whatever I do but it is not quite the same as having someone around who also lives and breathes music. You are very lucky to have found Mademoiselle Daae, my dear fellow." Reyer raised his glass with a smile. "I wish you very happy."

Erik returned the smile and lifted his own glass in acknowledgement. A moment later the door opened and Henriette Reyer bustled in with a tray, setting out still-warm bread and a selection of cheeses on the little table between the chairs. Reyer got up, fetching more glasses and a bottle of claret. As Henriette began to withdraw, taking the brandy snifters with her, Erik started up from his seat, concerned.

"Please, Mademoiselle, don't leave on my account," he said quickly. "I do not wish to evict you from your own parlour."

"It's quite all right," she said, smiling and patting his hand. To his surprise he felt no urge to pull away. "You're a guest in this house and I have clearing up to do. Besides, the two of you will be talking music and Antoine knows how that flies over my head. I'll take this little one - " She produced what appeared to be half a sausage from her apron and offered it to Bruno, who leapt up immediately, snapping his jaws around the unexpected treat " – with me so that you can have some peace."

Left alone, Reyer handed Erik a plate and the two of them ate in quietly, the musical director enjoying the plain but tasty fare and Erik nibbling what he could without disturbing his mask. If Reyer noticed his caution he said nothing, for which the Phantom was grateful. The clock was just striking half past nine when Reyer sighed and finally said,

"I suppose we really should discuss this ballet..."

"This is ridiculous. Surely it would be easier to incorporate one of Strauss's waltzes and have the ballerinas dance to it at the ball," Reyer said, regarding the pile of screwed up sheets of manuscript paper in the grate in frustration. "Why do we not just do that?"

Erik was pacing the room, his usual occupation when thinking. "Because the managers have commissioned us to write a ballet and I have a feeling that they will settle for nothing less. Besides which, there are not enough men to partner the dancers and Madame Giry will claim her talents are not being put to good use if all she has to choreograph is a waltz."

"You are right, I suppose." Gloomily Reyer picked up his pen once more and dipped it into the ink pot. He stared at the fresh sheet of paper before him but made no move to write. "If only we had something the like of _Don Juan Triumphant_ to work with," he remarked, making Erik start. "It was not an easy piece by any description but it was so rewarding to have a work of such genius in my hands. I fear we will never see its like again."

"It is unlikely," Erik said guardedly. It was indeed the truth, for the morning after Christine had accepted his proposal he had thrown the manuscript into which he had poured his pent-up longing and unrequited love into the underground lake. He had no need of it now and did not want to be reminded of the madness that had overtaken him. With Christine by his side he would write better things.

"Did you ever read the entire libretto when you were assisting Christine?" the musical director asked. "It was a phenomenal achievement; completely ahead of its time."

"We tended to concentrate on the parts that were giving her trouble but I did familiarise myself with it." Desperate to change the subject before Reyer thought to ask a really awkward question, Erik's eye fell upon the piano accordion which seemed to be collecting dust on a shelf beside the china-filled credenza. An aspidistra almost obscured the instrument. He pointed to it. "Do you play?"

Reyer turned and looked surprised, as though he had forgotten its existence. "I did once, when I was much younger. Occasionally I took it out and played for a while on the riverbank in summer."

"May I..?" Receiving a nod of permission, Erik picked the accordion up. He had not touched one himself in some time but it did not take more than a few minutes for his fingers to remember the sequence of keys and before long he had coaxed a tune from it, one he had once heard played by a master accompanied by fiddle and drum, deep in the English countryside. Instinctively he began to sing, the words returning as though he had heard them yesterday.

"_Oh, the prickle-eye bush _

_That pricks my heart for sore_

_And if ever I get out of this prickle-eye bush_

_Then I never will get in it any more_

_Oh, hangman stay your hand_

_Stay it for a while_

_For I think I see my own true love _

_Coming over yonder stile_

_Oh, true love have you brought me gold?_

_Or silver to set me free?_

_For to save my body from the cold, cold ground_

_And my neck from the gallows tree"_

Reyer applauded, making Erik jump; for a moment he had forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. He flushed slightly at the praise. "Marvellous, my friend, marvellous. Wherever did you learn such a tune?"

"I spent a while in England and made the acquaintance of a man who had made it his mission to collect as many of his native songs as possible," Erik said, fingers meandering up and down the accordion's keyboard. "I learnt many of them from him."

"The stage suffered a great loss when you decided to concentrate your talents upon those who have need of instruction," Reyer replied, and then glanced at Erik's mask, realising what he had said. His face fell. "Of course, you could not... forgive me, I did not think."

Incredibly, Erik felt no anger. It was in some way comforting to know that he had been accepted enough for the other man to have entirely forgotten about the porcelain shield he wore against the world. Quickly, Reyer latched onto another topic of conversation. "That piece," he said as Erik teased a few more notes from the instrument on his lap, playing them almost unconsciously. "What is it?"

Concentrating Erik belatedly realised that he had been bringing the waltz-time piece he spontaneously composed the night Christine accepted him to life. It was the first time he had attempted to put the tune he had so far been content to let meander around in his brain to an instrument. "Just something idle that I wrote," he told Reyer, bemused by the man's sudden enthusiasm. Reyer's eyes were alight and he jumped up, taking the accordion away from Erik and leading him to the piano, sitting him down on the stool in his place.

"Play it," the musical director said. "Please."

Erik frowned. It was just a silly piece of love-struck fluff. "Whatever for?"

"Because," Reyer said, drawing another sheet of paper towards him, "I think it may be just what we have been searching for."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

If anyone would like to hear the song that Erik sings, search Youtube for 'Bellowhead' and 'Prickle-Eye Bush'.


	40. Why Can't The Past Just Die

**WHY CAN'T THE PAST JUST DIE?**

Elated, Erik left the Reyers' after midnight, following two hours of frenzied work upon the piece. It was far from finished but would be enough to keep the managers and, more importantly, Antoinette happy and give the ballet rats something to do during rehearsals. He had seldom felt more fulfilled, and there was a definite spring in his step as he walked the darkened streets back to the Opera. Even Bruno seemed to sense his good mood, and trotted along beside him quite happily.

It was a mood that was not destined to last. Two blocks from the Place de l'Opera Erik's sharp hearing caught a sound behind; he had been followed enough times in the past to recognise footsteps even when their owner was doing his best to conceal them. He stopped, and his pursuer stopped too. Waiting patiently for several seconds and hearing nothing he moved off again, and sure enough there was the faint padding of shoes upon concrete some twenty paces away.

There was a street lamp still burning on the Boulevard; halting beneath it ostensibly to tie his shoelace Erik listened carefully to the steps approach. When they were so close he could almost hear the man breathing he whipped out a hand, rising to his feet in one fluid motion, and was rewarded with a strangled gasp as his fingers found the soft flesh and taught sinew of a human windpipe. He squeezed slightly, just enough to cause pain, and the man gurgled as his airway began to be cut off. Surprisingly he was a fairly well-dressed individual; his dark hair slicked back with pomade and waxed tips to his thin black moustache. His clothes were not new but decently-tailored. Hardly the sort that one would expect to be trailing a man at this time of night.

"What do you want?" Erik hissed in the man's ear, wishing that he had not listened to Christine and agreed to stop carrying the Punjab lasso. "Why are you following me?"

There was another step, louder and with no attempt to hide it; Erik spun, not letting go of the man whose larynx he had begun to crush. He realised he was illuminated by the streetlamp, the light bouncing from his mask and he shied away into the shadows as the newcomer slowly approached. Bruno whined, shivering and hiding behind Erik's legs.

"Well, well, well," said the new arrival, and he found the voice with its guttural accent horribly familiar. "So it really _is_ you. When I saw the sketch in _L'Epoque_ I thought I was dreaming but that silly little ballerina confirmed it. I thought you died long ago."

Erik's eyes widened in horror as he recognised the shadow that fell onto the pavement, bisecting the circle of light from the lamp. It was a shadow that had fallen over him many times as he crouched, dirty and beaten, amongst the filthy straw of his cage, just waiting for the next blow. For the first time in many years he felt his blood run cold; his hand slackened on the man's throat as his limbs began to shake involuntarily. There were few people in the world who had the power to frighten the Phantom of the Opera, but that voice belonged to one of them. A face, bronzed and smiling, chin covered with a bristling black beard, blossomed out of the darkness like something from a nightmare.

"It is convenient, though," its owner said as the first man fell to his knees, clutching his windpipe and coughing, "As you still live I will have the pleasure of killing you myself."

"You..." Erik's voice was hoarse and seemed to vanish as it emerged from his mouth. "You are dead. I - "

"I think you are mistaking me for my father," the newcomer replied, stepping into the light. He was tall it was true, but slender and though quite obviously able to defend himself there was no sign of the enormous coiled muscles and brute strength of the man Erik remembered. His dress was different, too; Dumitru had always favoured the brightly-coloured shirts and baggy black breeches of his native country, his ears adorned with huge gold rings but this man wore the ordinary, unobtrusive clothes of a city-dweller, his neat suit hidden by a light overcoat and his hair and beard carefully trimmed. "However, he is indeed dead and you of all people should know that. You did kill him, after all."

Fighting against his instincts, Erik forced himself to stand straight and tall, head held high and chin tilted defiantly despite his urge to turn and run. "He would have killed me first. He almost did, on many occasions. Your father took a sadistic delight in battering me; it was pure luck that I managed to survive his treatment."

"Luck that has now run out." Dumitru's son snapped his fingers and another man, this one looking more like the gypsies Erik remembered, came out of the shadows. He heard another step and knew that at least one more was behind him; had he his lasso he might have been able to take at least two of them on, but they had him surrounded. "You have been clever, my friend; for years we tried to find you but when you left the fair that day you vanished without trace. But I waited and bided my time and now I have you before me, because you finally made a mistake and crawled out of the woodwork like the miserable insect you are."

Though he was expecting the blow and tried to prepare for it, when something heavy smashed across the back of Erik's head he was sent reeling, tongues of fire licking around the base of his skull. He staggered, trying desperately to remain upright, but his legs betrayed him and he fell into a waiting pair of hands. He struggled, trying to free himself but he was held fast, arms twisted behind his back in the work of a moment and pinioned with a grip of iron. His left shoulder, the gunshot wound still only recently healed, screamed in protest. Raising his head, he saw Dumitru's son smiling brightly at him, black eyes hard and cruel.

"How did that feel, Corpse?" he enquired, dragging the name that his father had bestowed upon Erik from the depths of the past. Erik did not reply, instead lifting his head with an effort and choking back the cry that threatened to break from him as his skull seemed about to explode. Gathering the all the saliva he could he hawked it and spat right in his tormentor's face. The gypsy scowled; slowly he wiped his cheek and then, without warning drew back his arm and lashed out with lightning speed, backhanding the Phantom across the face. Erik's head snapped to the side with the impact; the blow knocked his mask, skewing the angle at which it sat, and the gypsy (his name was Grigore, his fuddled mind recalled dimly) reached out, snatching it away. He tossed it aside carelessly and Erik heard the porcelain shatter as it hit the pavement.

The brute holding him laughed, a low rumbling in his chest. He grabbed Erik by the hair, dragging his head up once more so that Grigore could see his distortion clearly. "Still just as ugly, I see," Grigore said with a sneer. "Any more damage to that pathetic excuse for a face will hardly matter."

Erik snarled, pushing past the pain and bringing up his right foot with a sudden burst of strength he kicked out, catching Grigore hard in the stomach with the pointed toe of his boot. The gypsy roared in pain, stumbling backwards, and motioned to his henchmen who fell upon Erik with evident delight. The first blows barely registered as Erik fought wildly against his attackers, succeeding in catching them with knees and elbows before another savage blow to the head subdued him. Sounds faded in and out and his vision blurred, obscured further by the blood that was dripping into his eye from a gash to his forehead. There was a dull crack as a fist connected with his deformed cheek; he grunted with pain, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind where a tiny rational voice remained whether the bone, protected by little more than tightly-stretched skin and twisted muscle, had been broken. Another fist drove deep into his sternum; the air was forced from his lungs and he would have fallen had he not been held upright to make things easier for his assailants.

There was a shout from somewhere and panicked muttering, but he hardly noticed that he had been dropped until his battered body hit the concrete. He could not have raised his head had he wanted to, and he didn't want to, quite content to just lay there and let death come. It surely could not be far away. In the encroaching shadows he thought he saw a face, pale and concerned, hovering over him, mouth moving in words he could not understand.

_Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry..._

His last coherent thought before darkness overwhelmed him was that he would never now get to see her in the wedding dress she had so wanted to wear.

* * *

"It's all right; don't move, we'll get you to a doctor."

The voice was strange, its inflexions peculiar and its accent wrong. Erik tried to frown but the movement was exquisitely painful so he settled for cracking his eyes open. He nearly recoiled from the bright light that greeted them but in the brief moments before he was forced to shut them once more he could see that the face was still there above him. It was frowning at him and saying something else but he couldn't make it out; his head was throbbing and he was too tired to make the effort. Was it an angel? Had he somehow managed to cheat Hell and break free of its clutches upon him? It seemed unlikely. Death wasn't meant to be this agonising, surely? Something was licking his hand and he tried to pull away but couldn't find the strength.

"_Christine_..." he breathed before he faded away again.

"_Open your mouth and sing, you deformed piece of shit! Do you expect people to pay good money just to see your ugly face? If I thought they would I'd tie you to the bars and leave you there so that they could have their fill of you!_"

The whip whistled through the air and Erik's body jerked involuntarily, the lash cutting into delicate skin already crossed with scars and open sores. His face was throbbing from the punch the gypsy had thrown as he entered the cage, a blow hard enough to subdue his captive enough for the torment to start. Knuckles white with the effort he gripped the bars, determined to remain on his feet and not give the brute what he wanted: a snivelling piece of human wreckage sprawled in the straw begging for release.

"_Think yourself better than us, eh? I'll tell you now, Monsieur Corpse, you are worth nothing, do you hear me?_ Nothing!"

Agony rippled across his back as the whip descended again and Erik could not choke back the cry that grew in his throat. He gritted his teeth, face contorted against the pain. How had his life come to this?

"Shh, it'll only be for a moment. We're just going to move you into the carriage."

That voice, the one with the foreign accent, was back. It was a woman, he realised; what was she doing in this hell? Was she watching, peering through the bars and enjoying his humiliation? He must have cried out again for there was the sensation of a hand on his cheek and someone was stroking his hair. Erik tried to lean into the comforting touch but as he moved red flared behind his eyes and he felt his gorge rise, his stomach turning upside down.

"Hold on, sweetheart, just a little longer," that voice said. It sounded maddeningly familiar. He struggled to lift his eyelids, to see who she was, but they felt as though they had been weighted with lead. There were more hands on him and his body jolted, sending a wave of fire across his torso. He thought he heard himself groan but couldn't be sure it was actually his own voice; it sounded so far away.

"_Sing! Sing for me!_"

Another lash. Hot blood dripped down his back. The wounds, old and new, stung and burned. His knees buckled and he fell against the side of the cage, breath shuddering from him. Dumitru leant over him, trailing a finger down his spine; with an obscene chuckle the gypsy stuck the finger into one of the cuts he had inflicted and twisted the raw flesh. Erik screamed, no longer caring if he was heard.

"It's all right, it's all right, honey. Oh, Georges, be careful... mind his head." That soft touch was suddenly there again, so cool and soothing after the searing heat through which it seemed he was crawling. The woman's voice sounded achingly sad. "You poor man. Why would anyone want to do this to you?"

"_This is all you're fit for, you monster. Don't you see that? No one else would have you!_"

He was burning up, body in flames. For a moment Erik fancied he could smell the sulphur, hear the wails of the tortured souls he was destined to join. Mercifully the blackness overwhelmed him once more, welcoming him with open arms. He saw a pale face streaked with tears and surrounded by a cloud of brown curls and then there was nothing.

"._..Christine? Christine, are you there?_"


	41. Angel of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

Thank you once again everyone for all the lovely reviews you've been leaving! I really am pleased that so many people are enjoying this story and staying along for the ride. :)

* * *

**ANGEL OF MERCY**

"From what you've told me, Teddy, they sound like a bunch of oddballs and eccentrics. Ghosts in the rafters, falling chandeliers and a chorus master who wears a mask..! It all sounds like something from a penny dreadful!"

Theodora Merriman laughed. "In that case, Jimmy, I should fit right in!"

"You do yourself an injustice, girl. Crazy you may be, but eccentric you most definitely are not," her companion told her gallantly, reaching for her hand and ostentatiously bestowing a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.

"James Patterson-Smythe, you are the most appalling flatterer," she said, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Must be why I like you so much."

Patterson-Smythe leaned back against the squabs and regarded her with interest as the carriage rattled through the darkened streets. They'd had a dizzying evening of dinner and dancing, and though Theodora would have been quite happy to continue their revelry until the early hours she knew that her maid would be extremely disapproving if she crawled in after sunrise on a Sunday. Martha had been with her ever since she left home to join the Metropolitan Opera in New York, and saw herself as more than just an assistant; she usually took on the role of Teddy's conscience and moral compass, much to her charge's annoyance. It was a shame that Martha never had quite realised that her homilies and scoldings ran off Theodora like water from a duck's back.

"Well, are you going to tell me how you feel about the place?" James asked. "I have read the papers while I've been here, you know – is that chorus master _really_ a monster? Should I be fearful of your safety in my absence?"

Teddy's smile vanished. "You should know better than to listen to gossip, Jimmy. Mister Claudin may be a bit forbidding but he's an extremely clever man and I think I like him. There are lots of men who put up a front when they're really terribly shy underneath, and if he's had to withstand attacks like that one in _Le Figaro_ who can blame him for erecting a few walls to hide behind? Besides," she added, "Miss Daae thinks the world of him and gave up a viscount in order to marry him. She's such a sweet girl that I can hardly imagine she'd take on a fellow who if you believe the press has all the qualities of Count Dracula, Quasimodo and Frankenstein's Monster rolled into one. And I don't mean the good qualities."

"If you say so." Patterson-Smythe shrugged. "Strikes me that the theatre seems to attract all kinds of strange people that you'd never find anywhere else."

"Oh, it does. And that's precisely what I like about it," she said with a grin.

He rolled his eyes. "Well, you always were attracted to the weirder things in life. Just as long as I'm not leaving you to be - " He broke off as the sound of shouting came from the street outside. "Hey, what the hell is that?"

Theodora was at the window immediately; as a streetlamp flashed past she thought she saw a group of men, and as fists flew she realised in horror what was happening. Grabbing Jimmy's cane from his astonished hands she rapped on the roof of the brougham. "Georges! Georges, stop the coach!"

"What are you doing?" Patterson-Smythe demanded. "You're not going to throw yourself into a brawl!"

"I will if I have to." The carriage slowed and she was already turning the handle of the door. "You can stay here if you want but some poor individual is being battered into next week and I'm not going to sit and watch!"

"Jesus, you never change, do you?" he muttered, and she smiled grimly, knowing that he was following. She hopped down to the ground without waiting for Georges to scramble from the box to assist, looping her skirts up over one arm and taking a firm grip on her umbrella in case she needed to do some battering of her own. Trust it to be the one evening she decided to leave her pocket pistol in the drawer of the bedside table.

The tableau under the lamp became clearer as she set off towards it at a run, her heels ringing hollowly on the pavement. There were four of them, one holding a man who sagged against him as two others took it in turns to pummel him. She couldn't tell from here if the fellow was dead or alive. In the shadows she thought she saw a fifth man lurking, observing the spectacle. "Hey!" she yelled as they became aware of her presence and turned their heads. "Yes, you! What in the name of all that's holy do you think you're doing? You think that's civilised behaviour?"

The roughs, for so they were, unsavoury individuals in shabby clothes, their skin dark and swarthy, hair and beards as black as night, all started talking. Their language was harsh and guttural, and she couldn't understand a word but two sounded agitated. One had a hoop of gold through each ear which gleamed in the gaslight. He had the temerity to laugh when he saw Teddy, hardly a threatening image in an evening gown, fur stole slipping from her shoulders, but then he evidently noticed Jimmy and Georges coming up behind her; Jimmy had drawn the thin, sharp blade that was usually concealed inside his cane and the coachman carried a stout cudgel which he slapped into his free hand with a satisfying thwack. The man being pinioned did not move, and as his attackers became slowly aware that they were probably not going to win a fight in such a public place the one holding him let go and he fell hard onto the concrete.

"I'd move if I were you," Theodora announced. "My maid is already on her way to the nearest police station and the gendarmes will be here any minute." It was a lie, but how were they to know?

There was a heated discussion, cut through sharply by the man lurking in the shadows. His voice was authoritative and the others seemed to obey him immediately. They slunk away, each only stopping to aim a kick at the prostrate figure on the ground; the last man, a dark shape in an overcoat, was hunched over as though in pain and Theodora hoped his victim had done some serious damage. He paused to spit at the fellow before joining his minions and vanishing into the night.

"Damn it, Teddy, what did you let them go for?" Jimmy demanded. "They'll probably jump some other poor schmuck!"

"You've changed your tune! We couldn't have fought them if it came down to it and I'm more concerned with this poor guy than rounding them up for the police." Theodora crouched down at the side of the man sprawled on the pavement. He was face down but it was obvious he was unconscious; he made no reaction as James and Georges between them gently turned him over. Teddy instinctively supported his head and her glove came away slick with blood. The discovery didn't shock her as much, however, as the sight of the unfortunate fellow's face: the left side was bruised and cut, more blood running from a gash across his forehead, but the right... the twisted features could surely only belong to one person, and as her eyes ran over the tall, thin frame and the long, musician's fingers of the hand that lay unmoving by her feet, she realised that it was Erik Claudin.

"Oh, God have mercy," she murmured.

"What's the matter, Teddy?" James asked. "Do you know this fellow?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could make a sound Erik groaned and she returned her attention to him. His eyelids flickered. "It's all right; don't move, we'll get you to a doctor," she told him, but he seemed not to hear her, falling still again. "Do you know where we can find one?" she asked Georges.

"They'd know, back at the house," the coachman replied. "Better to take him there than to drive around looking for one."

"Good. We'll do that." Theodora's attention was suddenly caught by a high-pitched whine that was coming from somewhere just outside the circle of light cast by the streetlamp. The whine became a bark and she peered into the gloom curiously to see a shaggy chocolate brown spaniel crawl out of the shadows and approach the crumpled figure on the ground. It looked up at her with enormous dark eyes and bent its head to lick Erik's hand, whimpering when the wounded man didn't move.

"Teddy, you can't be serious," said Jimmy. "I know you want to help but you can't take strange men into your home just like that, even if they have been beaten to a pulp!"

"This is not a strange man, Jimmy. This is the 'monster' we were discussing earlier, and if you think I'm just going to leave him here _you're_ crazy," Theodora snapped. "Georges, do you think we can get him into the coach?"

"Christ." Jimmy stared at Erik in disbelief. "_That's_ Claudin? What the hell did those madmen do to his face?"

Teddy clucked her tongue impatiently. "Never mind that now. Help Georges lift him; we can lay him down on the seat." Erik cried out as the two men picked him up as carefully as they could. It was awkward; he was extremely tall and they had no idea how many other injuries he had suffered. Theodora gently cupped his cheek, running a soothing hand over his dishevelled hair. "Shh, it'll only be for a moment," she said. "We're just going to move you into the carriage." He must have heard her, even though he was fading in and out of consciousness, or was at least aware of her presence as he tried to lean in to her touch. He groaned again and his pained expression became a grimace. She reached for his hand, folding her fingers around it. "Hold on, sweetheart, just a little longer..."

"He's a heavy son of a bitch," James muttered. "How can someone that scrawny weigh so much?"

It wasn't an easy feat to try and lift a badly injured man into a brougham; the doorway was narrow and even though Jimmy went in first to take Erik's head and shoulders it was inevitable that they would have to be less than gentle. Teddy almost felt the pain herself when his battered body was jolted and a scream broke from Erik's bloodied lips. She bent over him, her hand on his cheek again, trying to calm him. "It's all right, it's all right, honey," she whispered, stroking his temple. "Oh, Georges, be careful... mind his head!"

Eventually they managed to get Erik into the carriage, though there was barely enough room to stretch him out on one of the seats. It would be cramped, and Theodora told James to ride on the box with Georges, taking the dog from him when he caught it as the poor thing tried to jump into the coach after them. He looked less than impressed with her suggestion, exclaiming, "What, and leave you alone with him?"

"What do you think he's going to do: make an assault on my virtue?" She climbed in, sitting down on upholstery that was already stained with blood, and took the wounded man's head into her lap. The spaniel settled itself on the seat opposite, ears drooping and tail making a half-hearted wag. "Just get up there and let's get going," she said, and James reluctantly went. A moment later the brougham jerked as the horses pulled it into motion. Theodora brushed a lock of dark hair back from the deformed side of Erik's face and sighed sadly. "You poor man. Why would anyone want to do this to you?"

His response was just one word, barely a breath. "..._Christine_?"

* * *

"Oh, Miss Teddy, whatever have you got yourself into now?" Martha asked as Theodora emerged from the bathroom tying the belt on a frothy pink robe. The expensive evening gown, worn only once, lay in a ruined heap on the tiled floor, blood all down the front.

"Don't scold, Matty," she said, taking the seat beside the bed that the older woman had just vacated. In her absence Martha had cleaned up their unexpected guest, bandaging his head as best she could and laying cold compresses on the worst of the emerging bruises. He was still fully dressed, however, and it was obvious that she had not investigated any further injuries that might be hidden by his clothing. Martha still looked rather green around the gills but thankfully she had not fainted as Teddy had feared when it became clear that the damage to Erik's face had not all been inflicted this evening. "I'm not some eight year old you've caught stealing apples from Old Man Mannering's orchard. Has the doctor arrived yet?"

Martha tutted disapprovingly. "Henri's on his way to fetch one now. You could have taken him to a hospital, you know."

"And have the press discover his whereabouts? You didn't see the crowd that was hanging around the theatre last week; the place would be under siege and I doubt if Mister Claudin or Miss Daae would thank me for it." Theodora lifted Erik's deceptively frail wrist from the bed and gently felt for his pulse; it was erratic, fluttering beneath her fingers, but it was there, thank God. "Has he woken at all?"

"No so you'd notice. That's a nasty head wound."

"I know, and that's what I'm worried about." Teddy regarded the unconscious man, taking in the cuts and bruises that littered the formerly undamaged side of his face. Reaching out she removed the cloth that covered his deformity, unsure whether Martha had placed it there to help the swelling around his eye or to hide the distortion itself.

"Should we contact this Miss Daae of yours?" Martha enquired.

Theodora's face creased in frustration as she replaced the cloth. "I don't know where she lives. Come to think of it, I have no idea where he lives, either. I won't be able to find her until tomorrow morning at the Opera."

"By then it might be too late," the other woman said gloomily.

"Martha Speedwell, don't you dare say such a thing!" Teddy exclaimed. "No one is dying in my house!"

Martha shook her head. "Well, he doesn't look too clever to me." She picked up the basin full of bloodied water and sailed off towards the bathroom to empty it. Teddy leaned over and began to unbutton Erik's shirt; spreading it open she discovered a patchwork of darkening purple across his chest. He would be lucky not to have at least one broken rib, she reflected, and was about to lay a hand lightly on his torso to feel for any depressions when there was a scratching at the door and then it opened, allowing a bundle of shaggy brown hair to fly into the room, curly ears and banner-like tail streaming behind it. The spaniel barked, sitting down for a moment at Theodora's feet and looking up as if challenging her before jumping onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed and from there to the mattress. The maid who had accompanied the dog tried to grab for it but with a triumphant yap it evaded her, lying down at Erik's side.

"I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle," the maid, out of breath from doubtlessly having chased the animal down the landing, gasped. "He just wouldn't stop!"

Teddy couldn't help smiling at the spaniel's dedication. "It's all right, Chloe. Thank you for cleaning him up. Where is Monsieur Patterson-Smythe?"

"Downstairs in the library, Mademoiselle. He said he wouldn't leave until the doctor had been."

"Thank you. Will you tell him that if he wishes to stay the rest of the night he is more than welcome? Make up the bed in the blue room for him." Chloe bobbed a curtsy, an affectation Teddy hated for she was neither aristocracy nor royalty, and vanished into the hall. No doubt Martha would cluck at her for inviting a bachelor, and one to whom she was not related, to stay, but by now Teddy was past caring. She had known Patterson-Smythe since her debut and he had been a both supportive and efficient theatrical agent as well as a faithful friend. "Besides," she told the spaniel, "_I'm_ not going to tell anyone that he slept under my roof. Will you?"

The dog barked, which she took as agreement, and wagged its feathery tail. Getting up, it planted its front paws on Erik's chest, licking his face in the evident hope that such attention might induce him to open his eyes. The creature looked so crestfallen when its idea didn't work that Theodora didn't have the heart to laugh. She picked it up, settling it on her lap, and began stroking its unruly coat. "Someone needs to give you a haircut," she remarked. "You look as though you just crawled through a hedge." Her fingers found the collar and the round disc that bore the dog's name. "Ah, Bruno, is it? You were aptly named." Bruno whined and tried to wriggle free, turning his head towards the silent man in the bed. Teddy sighed. "Yes, I know you want him to wake up. So do I. Unfortunately, as my old mammy used to say, we can't always have what we - " The spaniel twisted free and jumped back onto the bed, knocking the now almost dry cloth away and running his tongue over the deformed side of Erik's face before she could stop him.

This time, much to Teddy's surprise, her injured guest moaned and stirred, his eyelids flickering. She all but leapt from her chair, bending over him, as, with a supreme effort, his eyes, one pale blue, the other brown, opened and he was blinking up at her in confusion. He tried to speak but nothing emerged; she wondered whether it would be all right to give him some water and was looking around for the bedside carafe when he whispered in a voice like sandpaper, "...what... where..?"

"It's all right, you're quite safe," she told him, taking the hand that lay nearest on the coverlet and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You're in my home... well, the ostentatious box my advisors made me rent at least. A doctor is on his way; we'll have you right as ninepence in no time."

Erik looked even more bewildered by her rattling. His eyes fell closed again. "...Christine?"

"Do you want me to fetch her?" Theodora asked quickly. "Where does she live? I'll send someone for her straight away."

"Rue de..." Before he could finish the sentence he had faded away again, head dropping to one side and his hand falling limp in Teddy's own. With a sigh she looked at Bruno who was panting, tongue lolling from his mouth.

"I don't suppose you know Miss Daae's address, do you?" The spaniel cocked his head to one side and whined. She opened her mouth to say something else, but was distracted by the sound of wheels on the road outside; hurrying to the window she peered out to see a cab pulling up at the front door. Henri's little figure jumped out, followed by a tall man in a light overcoat and a bowler hat. "Thank goodness! The doctor's here," she told Bruno, who naturally didn't reply.

Within moments, it seemed, barely giving her time to cover Erik's battered face again, there was a knock at the door and Chloe appeared once more, escorting the man Teddy had seen below minus his outdoor clothing. His dark hair was brushed neatly back from his high forehead and he affected horn-rimmed spectacles and a Van Dyck beard. There was a Gladstone bag in his hand. "Doctor Lambert, Mademoiselle," Chloe announced, and would have withdrawn but Theodora called to her to stay in case assistance were needed.

Teddy held out a hand to the newcomer. "I'm glad to see you, sir, and thank you for coming so promptly. We have something of an emergency, as I'm sure you are aware."

"Mademoiselle," he said, voice deep and authoritative, turning his attention towards the bed and its occupant. "Your boy did tell me something of the particulars on the way but as he was not directly involved the details were rather sketchy. He said that this man was injured in a brawl...?"

"More than that; I believe he was attacked in cold blood. There were four of them, using him as a punch-bag. Monsieur le Docteur, there is something you should know - " Theodora began as he bent over Erik, fingers moving to the edges of the cloth that covered the wounded man's face. Before she could finish the cloth was whisked away and Erik's twisted features were revealed in all their questionable glory. "I'm sorry," she said, "I wanted to prepare you - "

Astonishingly, the doctor did not seem bothered by the ravaged face before him, gentle fingers probing the damage. Teddy supposed that he must have seen many gruesome sights during his career, but she was not expecting him to glance towards her with a slight smile and say, "It's quite all right, Mademoiselle Merriman, I was already aware of the facial... irregularity. I have treated this gentleman before."


	42. Hunting High and Low

**Author's Note:**

Today's chapter title comes courtesy of A-ha.

* * *

**HUNTING HIGH AND LOW**

"Good morning, Erik! Bruno, I hope you've been a good boy and not been annoying Papa; you know he doesn't like it."

He wouldn't like being referred to as 'Papa' either, Christine thought with a smile as she shut the front door behind her and picked up the basket she'd rested on the hall table. Inside was another bone for the spaniel, a pair of clippers she'd bought in a shop recommended by Alphonse Renard to tidy up Bruno's coat and a bottle of wine with which she hoped to placate Erik. He'd become increasingly twitchy over Bruno's continued presence in his home since the impromptu manifestation of the 'Phantom' at Friday's rehearsal, so much so that the following day he'd actually paid one of the runners to take the little dog out for a walk until the practise session was over. When they returned after several hours poor Jean-Paul looked exhausted but Bruno was in high spirits, tail wagging madly. She hoped that Erik wouldn't insist on the same charade this morning, and was ready to do battle with him over shutting Bruno out by the lake while she had her lesson; she couldn't concentrate for worrying that he might fall in and drown, a sentiment at which Erik had rolled his eyes and reminded her that dogs were in fact strong swimmers. That was all very well, Christine had countered, but what if he hadn't been taught?

The underground house was strangely quiet. Although it was still early Erik would usually be in the music room waiting for her, a cup of tea or coffee, the only breakfast he allowed himself, at his elbow. It was very odd not to hear snatches of whatever composition had taken his fancy at that particular moment winding their way down the hall and out into the cavern beyond. To be greeted by complete and utter silence was worrying, and as Christine ventured further down the passage she realised that the gas lamps were turned down low, as they usually were at night; he never let the house descend completely into darkness in case she ever had a reason to arrive at an unsociable hour.

"Hello?" she called, abandoning the basket and walking cautiously towards the library. There was no light under the door and when she ventured inside she found that the room was empty; turning up one of the lamps it was obvious from the neat aspect with which she was presented that he had not been there for some hours. The libretto for _Die Fledermaus_ was closed on the piano and the book he had been reading sat on the arm of his wing chair, a ribbon marker halfway through. Shutting the door again Christine made her way instead to his bedroom across the hall. "Erik? Erik, are you there?"

There was no answer. The bedroom was equally dark and devoid of life. It did not take long to determine that the bed had not been slept in; the covers were pulled so straight that they appeared to have been guided by a ruler and his slippers stood side by side on the rug. She knew that this was not unusual - Erik often spent all night working and grabbed what little sleep he needed slumped over piano or organ – but there was no sign of him anywhere and worry began to nag at her stomach, flipping it over. Running back into the hall she checked the table by the door for his keys and the coat stand for his hat; both were missing. Of course, he had to go above sometimes in order to buy food and any other necessities, and doubtless Bruno would have been whining to be taken out, but she had never known him not to be present when he was expecting her for a lesson. He had _never_ missed one of her lessons. Only something truly dreadful happening would keep him away...

Terrified now, shawl trailing unnoticed on the floor, Christine all but flew from the house, slamming the front door behind her.

She had to find him.

* * *

By the time she reached the upper levels of the theatre she was frantic.

There door to Erik's office was locked, none of the crew members she hunted out had seen him and Madame Giry, the one person who might know where he was, had apparently vanished too. According to Ilya, the Russian principal dancer, the ballet mistress had not turned up for work, instead sending a message to the management via Meg. Christine was in a greater panic than she could ever recall as she searched room after room for her friend; Meg seemed to be doing a wonderful job of hiding, too. Hoisting her skirts high so that she would not trip on them and not caring that everyone could see her ankles, she ran down the narrow passages of the backstage warren, apologising to anyone she knocked over or accidentally trod upon. Christophe Fortier did not seem bothered when she stumbled and fell against him, and it was she could do to extricate herself from his overly protective grip as he set her back on her feet; he looked put out as she wrenched herself away with breathless thanks, calling after her,

"Hey! Where's the fire?"

Christine careered around the corner, desperate now to find someone who might know her fiancé's whereabouts, and bumped straight into a gaggle of ballet rats coming in the opposite direction. They all squealed and flapped like a flock of pigeons and Christine found herself apologising once again, struggling to right herself when no one so much as offered a hand. Ever since her engagement to Erik became common knowledge most of them had been hostile towards her, as though they thought she was getting above herself. She had, after all, once been one of them, and they clearly resented her good fortune.

"Have any of you seen Meg this morning?" she asked, and was greeted with a circle of barely disguised glares.

"Should we have done?" one of them, a new recruit whose name Christine couldn't remember, asked.

"I thought you might have; she is - "

"We have more important things to concern us," Dorothée told her rudely, jerking a thumb behind her, and Christine could see in their midst a very unhappy-looking Hortense, her make-up running in streaks down her face and a soggy, twisted handkerchief in her hands. The dark-haired ballerina was being comforted by Giselle, who had her arm around Hortense's shoulders and a sympathetic expression on her face.

"Never mind," she was saying, "There are plenty of other fish in the sea."

"A _bâtard_ like that who stands you up isn't worth crying over," Dorothée added, ignoring Christine's continued presence and tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"I trusted him!" Hortense exclaimed. "He was so nice on Friday, he asked me all about myself, bought me drinks, made me feel like a princess. I agreed to meet him again last night; I waited for hours at the entrance to the fair but he never came!"

The other two made noises of commiseration. "Men are rats, Hortense," said Dorothée. "Worse, they're fleas on rats. No, they're whatever is small and disgusting that lives on fleas on rats. You can't believe a word they say."

Hortense nodded miserably. "I know. But I liked him so much!" she wailed, breaking down in noisy tears. "All the showmen were watching me and laughing. One of them even propositioned me! I've never felt so humiliated!"

"I'm sorry," Christine said as the ballerinas gathered around their sobbing friend, offering fresh handkerchiefs and platitudes, "but I really do need to find Meg. Have any of you - "

"Christine!" At the sound of her name she spun around to see Meg herself hurrying down the corridor. Incredibly, Little Giry was still in her street clothes, clutching her bag and shawl, a tiny straw hat pinned clumsily to her curls. Despite herself Christine couldn't help but stare: for Meg not to be ready for practise so close to rehearsal was unheard of. Gasping for breath after her dash, Meg caught hold of Christine by the elbow, drawing her aside. "Oh, thank goodness I've found you! I've been looking everywhere; your landlady said you left hours ago!"

"I had a lesson with Erik before rehearsal," Christine replied, her stomach seeming to drop a foot in the face of her friend's consternation. "Meg, have you seen him? The house is empty and his bed hasn't been slept in - "

Meg's usually sunny face became grim, and she steered Christine away from the flapping ears of the other ballet rats. "Come with me. I have something to tell you..."

* * *

"Attacked? How can he have been attacked?"

"I don't know. The message came for Maman before we got up; she went to answer the door and the next thing I knew she was flying back down the hall and throwing on her clothes as fast as she could," Meg said. "She told me to find you and bring you to Mademoiselle Merriman's house in the Rue Saint Denis."

Christine's anxiety was now mixed with complete bewilderment. "Mademoiselle Merriman? What has she to do with this?"

Again Meg admitted that she had no idea. "We should hurry; I've already spoken to Monsieur Reyer and given Maman's note to the managers so we won't be missed. I think... I think he's in a bad way, Christine."

"Oh, my poor Erik." Christine covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back the tears that sprang into her eyes at the thought of him lying hurt. Meg took her other hand, tugging on it gently and trying to lead her in the direction of the stage door. Christine resisted, shaking her head. "No, no, we need to go down to his house, take back the things he might need. His nightclothes, and brushes, and slippers, and... Oh, my goodness, was his mask damaged?"

"All right, but we must be quick," Meg said, glossing over yet another question to which she didn't know the answer. "I have a cab waiting on the Rue Scribe."

The two girls almost ran to Christine's dressing room, locking the door behind them and slipping through the mirror. Christine did not think she had ever descended to the fifth cellar so fast, making her way down the stairs and through the eternal night of the tunnels as though she was learning Erik's trick of seeing in the dark, avoiding the snares and trapdoors almost by instinct. The gondola was still tied up on the other side of the lake, but Meg showed her the little wooden craft she and Raoul had discovered in its rocky boathouse and within a few minutes the two of them were rowing across the calm black water, guided by their flickering candle and the eerie green luminescence of the cavern walls. For the second time that morning Christine entered the empty underground house, her heart heavy now that she knew the reason for its owner's absence.

She rummaged in the bottom of his wardrobe, finding a carpet bag and throwing inside all the things she knew he would require: clothes, toiletries and, after going through the chest of drawers and feeling as though she were intruding, one of his spare masks, which she found in the very last drawer, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. As Meg again exhorted her to hurry she picked up his book from the arm of the chair and tossed a couple of others, picked at random from the shelves, into the bag after it. From the hall table she grabbed the basket she had left behind earlier, passing it to her friend and, after turning down all the lamps and checking one last time for anything she had missed, Christine carefully secured the front door, making sure that it could not be detected by curious eyes. This done, she and Meg ran lightly up the spiral staircase that led to the Rue Scribe gate.

The Rue St Denis was a good fifteen minute ride from the Opera, in one of the wealthier districts. Christine's fingers were clenched around the handle of the carpet bag, knuckles white, as she dreaded what she might find upon their arrival. What if... she barely dared to even give form to the thought but it crept upon her regardless. What if when she reached him Erik was... dead?

"I'm sure he'll be all right, Christine," Meg said gently, laying a hand over hers. Christine jumped, not realising she had spoken aloud. "He's strong; think of what he's had to go through during his life. If he wasn't a fighter he wouldn't have survived, would he?"

"I know, it's just... everyone's luck has to run out one day." Christine's voice cracked and she took a deep breath, determined not to cry yet. What use were tears? Erik always hated to see her cry.

"Well, that day isn't today," Meg told her, and she sounded so sure that Christine almost believed her.

* * *

"Meg found you! Oh, thank God!"

Theodora Merriman met them in the hall, looking rather different in a simple, high-necked blouse and skirt, her magnificent chestnut hair loosely pinned. There was an older woman with her, tall and heavy-set with iron-grey curls, who looked on with a faintly disapproving air, as though she thought that Teddy should have left welcoming her guests to the rather stiff butler who had let them in. Christine was grateful when the Prima Donna clasped her hand and drew her towards the staircase, explaining how she and her friend had come across the altercation in which Erik had been injured and brought him home.

"I wish I could call it a fight, but it was three against one," Teddy said as they climbed the stairs, the other woman following. "I'm so sorry, Christine, really I am. I would have sent someone to fetch you the moment we got back here but - "

"I understand. Thank you for looking after him," Christine replied, her heart pounding louder in her ears the nearer they came to the bedroom in which Erik must be lying. "How..." Her voice failed her and she swallowed. "How is he?"

Theodora looked sad. They came to a halt before a white-painted door, and she kept her hold on Christine's hand. "He was bashed up pretty badly; the doctor said he's got two severely bruised ribs and various other cuts and contusions so he won't be going anywhere for a little while. His right cheekbone and eye took the brunt of one punch; that side of his face is much weaker than the left, but I guess you already knew that. There's a gash right across his forehead that looks as if it was made with a ring of some sort, and he was hit hard on the back of the head. That's the injury that's concerning the doctor the most."

"Is he... Can I see him?"

"Of course. Madame Giry's sitting with him." Teddy smiled. "He's been asking for you."

Christine looked up in surprise. "He has woken, then?" she asked, hope, that had been dashed low only a moment before, rising a little within her breast.

"Once or twice. He blacked out again almost immediately but the doctor did say it was better for him to wake even for a few moments than to remain in a coma. Your name has been almost the only word on his lips since I found him."

"Oh, my..." Christine moved towards the door, and would have turned the handle but she realised she was still holding the carpet bag with one hand and Theodora still clasped the other. She lifted the bag. "These are his things. Shall I - ?"

"Martha will take those," Theodora said, relieving her of the bag and passing it to the grey-haired woman who took it without comment. "Would either of you like some tea? Something to eat?"

Christine shook her head but Meg piped up hesitantly, "I wouldn't mind a piece of toast or a croissant if you have one. I missed breakfast."

"Go with Martha; she'll sort you out with anything you need." Meg looked at the older lady with a slightly unconvinced air, but followed when Martha inclined her head towards the stairs, squeezing Christine's shoulder reassuringly as she passed. "Are you all right, Christine?" Teddy asked when they had gone, her green eyes full of concern.

"I'll be fine," Christine said with a sniff. "It's just the shock; he was injured not so long ago and I thought I was going to lose him... oh, Teddy, why would anyone want to harm him like this?"

Theodora sighed. "I don't know, sweetheart, but what I can tell you is that they weren't out to rob him. His wallet and watch were both still there when we undressed him and his signet ring is still on his finger." Pausing a moment to let that information sink in, she opened the bedroom door and ushered Christine gently across the threshold.

It was all Christine could do not to cry out when she saw Erik lying in the canopied bed like a broken marionette, his head swathed with bandages. The right side of his face was a mess of purple and black, his eye almost completely swollen shut and pushing the scar tissue that already covered the deformity even further out of shape. He was horribly pale, and she could see through the open collar of the borrowed nightshirt he wore that his chest had been bandaged too. Madame Giry, who had been sitting in the armchair beside the bed, rose as they entered, crossing quickly to Christine and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"It looks far worse than it is," she said quietly. "Most of the injuries are superficial and will heal soon enough."

"What... what about the others?" Christine whispered, unable to take her eyes from her fiancé's unconscious form. Even when he had been shot by the marksman during _Don Juan Triumphant_ he had not as looked as lifeless as this.

The ballet mistress sighed. "We will just have to wait and see." She guided her former pupil to the chair beside the bed and crouched down, trying to look Christine in the eye. Her mouth jerked upwards in a tight little smile. "I'll fetch you a hot drink," she said. "You need something to sustain you."

"May I... May I have a few moments alone with him?" Christine asked, feeling the tears begin to encroach upon her again.

"Of course." Standing again, Madame Giry patted her on the shoulder. "If you need anything, one of us will be within call."

Christine tried to thank her but the words would not come. She waited, listening for the door to close behind the two women, her mouth contorting in despair as she tried to hold back; with a wail she slumped over the bed, hands reaching blindly for Erik's, her body heaving as it was shaken by wrenching sobs.

"Please, no, not like this...not after everything we've been through..."


	43. Why's Everything So Hazy

**Author's Note:**

Chapter title is a quote from _Lilac Wine_ by Elkie Brooks.

* * *

**WHY'S EVERYTHING SO HAZY?**

It was a feeling Erik knew well, this sense of dislocation.

Through the fog that filled his brain some coherent part of him knew he could not be dead; there was too much pain, a sensation that had always kept him tied to the world he had so often longed to leave, pleading with a God in which he did not really believe to end his suffering. So many times in the past he had struggled through the haze to return to a cold reality which saw him curled into a ball on the dirty straw of his cage, having tried instinctively while consciousness crept upon him to protect himself from the prods and kicks aimed in his direction.

"_Wake up, you filthy animal! No one pays to watch you sleep!_"

If he failed to respond, a rude awakening would come upon him in the form of an ice-cold bucket of rainwater, poured over his head to the jeers and simian laughter of Grigore and his cohorts. Even at the tender age of fourteen the boy had been proving himself to be as thoroughly unpleasant as his father. He and his friends would point and mock as Erik struggled to get up, limbs weak and back on fire from the beating he had endured just a few hours before. In the depths of winter they would leave him to shiver, soaked to the bone, until one of the women, anxious to preserve Dumitru's prize attraction, would shove a blanket and perhaps a cup of some foul-tasting broth through the bars. It was little enough, but in the face of daily torment Erik had found himself almost pathetically grateful for their concern.

So strange... how could he stay here in this warm cocoon of darkness? He had been beaten again, he knew that much, but where were the taunts and catcalls he always remembered? Why was there no one trying to drag him from the comforting arms of Morpheus just so that they could laugh and spit in his face and call him scum? Perhaps they were waiting, trying to lull him into a false sense of security, just so that they could rain down some worse indignity upon his head...

He listened, but could hear nothing but his heartbeat, loud in his ears. An attempt to open his eyes proved so terribly painful that he abandoned it almost immediately; even the tiniest movement sent daggers of fire through his skull. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his mind, he recalled being hit, could feel the blow smashing him across the back of the head. But Dumitru never hit from behind unless he was using the whip; he liked to aim for Erik's face, as though he wanted to enhance the horror with which his captive had already been blessed.

Gradually the fog began to lift, and the pain became, if possible, ten times worse. It seemed that there was not a part of him that did not ache or burn; coming back to himself he took an involuntary deep breath and thought that he might faint again from the agony it created. He choked, unable to draw in enough air, and each cough increased the pain to such an extent that it seemed his chest was about to rip asunder. His head throbbed, blurring the vision in the eye he had managed to force open even further. Panicking, he flailed uselessly at empty air until his hand found the solid flesh of another person; clutching at them desperately, past caring if they were friend or foe, he held on tight, convinced now that he was about to breathe his last.

"Shh... Erik, calm down, it's all right. It's all right, it's only me!"

That voice! He knew that voice, so sweet and musical even when it was not raised in song. Erik tried his best to bring his coughing under control but each shallow breath he tried to take just made the fit worse. He groaned, tears of pain gathering in the corners of his eyes as the fire in his chest burned deeper and deeper with each inhalation. There was a hand, a gentle hand, on his cheek, his deformed cheek, stroking it tenderly as another lifted him with careful movements, propping him against something warm and soft until he could finally catch his breath. He lay there, exhausted, gasping like a landed fish as his body shuddered from the effort. So much energy should not need to be expended upon something as simple and mundane as breathing in and out.

"There, there," the voice said, close to his ear, and he realised with a little embarrassment that his head was resting on someone's shoulder. Light fingers carded through his hair. "Better now?" He tried to nod, but it was barely a twitch. Whoever it was giving him comfort seemed to understand, for they shifted slightly, raising his head higher. An arm snaked around him, a hand resting on his waist. "Your ribs are bruised, but the doctor says they will heal. Would you like some water?"

Erik opened his mouth to ask who she was, where he was and what had happened, but all that emerged was a croak. Before he could try to speak again a glass was held to his lips and his saviour was encouraging him to drink; he took a sip, and then another, water trickling into his parched mouth. He coughed a little and the glass was withdrawn; careful hands laid him back onto what he realised were soft pillows, bundled together so that he did not have to lie flat. Almost at the same moment he became aware that he was not lying amongst filthy, scratchy straw but on a well-stuffed mattress beneath light blankets. The girl – from the timbre of her voice she could not be much more than a girl – was French, not Romany. Could it be possible that the cage and the fair were nothing more than a nightmare, an illusion conjured from the hellish pits of his own mind?

Her hand was stroking his hair again, just as he had always dreamed his mother might do. A sigh escaped him for the sensation was calming, soothing the thundering in his skull for a few moments. Erik found himself relaxing into that wonderful touch, and he drifted off again, finally feeling safe.

* * *

When he woke once more he had no idea how much time had passed.

The mist which shrouded his thoughts thankfully seemed to have receded, but the pain was making itself felt now with a vengeance. It took a supreme effort to open his eyes – or rather eye, as for some reason the right one refused to crack more than a slit through which it was impossible to see anything. It took a couple of blinks to clear the vision in the left, but once it had Erik was able to make out his surroundings. Beyond him the room was extravagantly-decorated, all pink frills and gilded cherubs as though someone had reached into the past and dragged Marie Antoinette's boudoir to modern Paris; he felt quite nauseous at the sight and wondered where the hell he was. The bed in which he lay was a huge four-poster affair, the mattress wide enough to comfortably accommodate at least three people the size of La Carlotta and the satin counterpane decorated with embroidered birds and flowers. There was a bucolic scene of shepherdesses painted on the footboard which brought to mind _The Dance of the Country Nymphs_ from _Il Muto_; not a particularly welcome thought.

An irritating flash of white hovered above his left eye, right on the edge of his vision, and he lifted a hand that trembled infuriatingly to push it away; his fingers encountered a thick bandage, and further investigation revealed that his head was almost entirely covered in the stuff. Beneath a nightshirt that was definitely not his own lay more bandages; an experimental inhalation confirmed the damage to his ribs. Not broken, he decided with some relief, but certainly seriously bruised, maybe even cracked. He tried to lift his head, and fell back with a hiss of pain; that was evidently the site of the worst injury.

After a few moments of lying perfectly still and breathing carefully so as not to irritate his ribs he tried turning on the pillow, moving slowly and steeling himself for the agony that was sure to follow. The world tilted and spun madly and he had to wait, gritting his teeth, until it righted itself again and he could see the armchair that had been drawn up beside the bed and its sleeping occupant. Under a patchwork blanket, a snoozing Bruno on her lap, was Christine.

She looked tired; her beautiful face was white and drawn, the usually lustrous chocolate brown curls that surrounded it tangled and frizzed. A dark shadow hung from her closed left eye, the only one he could see from the angle at which her head rested against the cushions of the chair. With a combined pang of gratitude and guilt Erik realised that it was her voice he had been hearing, it was she who had held him and comforted him and in his addled state of mind he had not recognised her. Instinctively he reached out to hold her, to reassure her, but he was too weak to even sit up unaided. Thirsty and unable to resist the lure of the half full glass of water on the bedside table he tried to grasp it; it just evaded his fingers and the movement pulled on his abused ribs, drawing from him an involuntary moan which startled Christine from her uneasy slumber. Jumping from the chair and almost tipping the bewildered spaniel onto the floor, she was at his side in an instant, hovering over him with concern writ large in her big dark eyes.

"Erik?" she said hesitantly, and he frowned, an expression he instantly regretted for the discomfort it produced was exquisite. Christine lifted a finger to touch his cheek. "Erik, do you... do you know me?"

"How could I not?" he rasped, and her features lit up with relief. "My apologies, my dear, for causing you so much distress."

"Oh, Erik..!" With a cry of joy she sat down on the bed, taking his hand in hers; he was sure that had she not been mindful of his injuries she would have flung herself into his arms. She bent her head and pressed her lips to his, and he could taste the salt of her tears as they ran down her face. Erik forced himself to lift his hand and wipe them away before they trickled down her chin and onto her rumpled dress.

"Don't cry, Christine," he whispered. "I'll live."

She shook her head. "I'm happy," she told him, "and glad that you're all right. I know you _will_ be all right, now. I was so worried - " With a little hiccup she turned away, brushing at her eyes with the back of her free hand. The diamond of her engagement ring sparkled in the lamplight.

Concerned himself now, Erik squeezed her fingers. "Christine?"

Her lip quivered. "Erik, you've been unconscious for three days. The doctor said that the longer it took you to wake up the greater chance there would be of permanent damage..." Her voice cracked and the tears began anew.

"Oh, Christine. Mon ange, come here..." He sighed and raised his arm, and she curled up on the bed beside him, almost desperate for his embrace. Bruno, unable to contain himself any longer and obviously resentful of being denied their attention, barked and leapt up onto the counterpane, settling down on Erik's other side, his head on the Phantom's leg. They both watched the dog in amusement, and Erik stroked his curly head. Bruno's coat was neatly trimmed, his hair brushed and shining as though he had recently been given a good bath. "Someone has clearly been looked after in my absence," Erik remarked.

Christine giggled. "Oh, that was Teddy. She said he needed tidying up."

"Teddy? Teddy Merriman?" he asked in surprise. "What has she to do with it?"

"This is her house. Well, the house she's renting," Christine added. "She's been wonderful, Erik; I don't know what I would have done without her." She explained how Mademoiselle Merriman and Monsieur Patterson-Smythe had found him and brought him home. Erik dimly remembered someone talking to him as he lay in the street and realised that it must have been Theodora. "I have no idea how we will manage to thank her; she has even taken over Gilda for me."

Startled, Erik raised his head to look at her, forgetting the pain for a moment. He hissed as it stabbed at him behind the eyes. Anxiously Christine felt his forehead as best she could through the bandages, little fingers lightly stroking his distorted cheek.

"Oh, my poor dear, you must be so uncomfortable. Would you like something for the pain?"

Usually Erik did not like to take opiates or painkillers but if it was this agonising just to shift his head he would have to give in and accept whatever assistance was offered. Christine got up and emptied a packet that had doubtless been left by whatever medical practitioner had been called to the house, stirring it into the glass of water and supporting his head with infinite care to allow him to drink. When she had set him back down and he no longer felt as though he were whirling on a merry-go-round, he demanded,

"Why the devil should Theodora Merriman have to sing Gilda for you?"

"Because I have been here, of course. I cannot be in two places at once," she told him as though he were absurdly obtuse for asking the question. "The managers have extended _Rigoletto_'s run now that the new production will be delayed; Teddy offered to take my place as she has played Gilda in New York and in London."

"We have understudies for such eventualities."

"I know, but as you gave the role of Maddalena to Sophie Leclerc in place of Augustine there is no one else. Marie cannot manage it and Monsieur Reyer would not hear of altering the score for one of the altos - "

"Quite right too," Erik muttered. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"

"Well, then, someone was needed in the part and as Teddy says, the show must go on," said Christine, straightening the sheets.

"Anyone with any sense at all would put Mademoiselle Leclerc in as Gilda and move Marie Durant to Maddalena; the part is written for a mezzo after all. The whole opera will be turned upside down! Why not ruin it completely and have the men play the female roles?" Despite the pounding in his head Erik tried to sit up. His arms wobbled and shook as he struggled to support himself on his elbows and Christine had to catch him before he collapsed again. He fought against her; Bruno yapped in alarm as he was almost tipped off the bed. "Get me some paper; I'll write instructions for Reyer. He needs to alter the casting at once and pull everyone in for extra rehearsal."

"There isn't time! Erik, calm down, please, it's not important - "

"Of course it's important!" he shouted. "Our triumph will descend into farce if I don't do something!"

"Erik, please, my darling, you'll only injure yourself further," Christine said, easing him back down onto the mattress. "You need to rest."

Reluctantly, he gave in, allowing her to settle him amongst the pillows. She pulled the covers up to his chin, tucking him in as though he were a child. Suddenly weary, Erik couldn't find the strength to argue. His eyelids drooped and as Christine began to hum a lullaby he welcomed sleep as it pulled him under once more.

* * *

"Does he remember anything about the attack?"

A new voice drew Erik back towards the waking world. His thoughts moved sluggishly; it took several moments for him to recognise its owner as Madame Giry. She was speaking softly, her tone a far cry from its usual authoritative self. Still dreadfully tired, Erik found that he was quite content to just lay there and listen; it was too much effort to even try and open his eyes.

"I haven't asked him and he has said nothing so far." That was Christine. He could feel her fingers laced through his own, her skin warm and smooth. "I don't want to confuse him, not while he's still so weak."

"Mademoiselle Merriman has been offering to give a statement to the police if Erik wishes to report the incident."

"I know, but I don't think he will, Madame."

"Oh?" Erik could almost see Antoinette lifting an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

There was a pause, as though Christine was gathering her thoughts, and then she said, her hand tightening around his, "Theodora told me what happened; she described the men. Had you heard that there was a gypsy fair in town?"

"I had. Meg told me that some of the sillier of my ballerinas sneaked off to visit it on Friday night. I know I cannot control them outside the theatre but I had hoped that they might have a little more sense. Obviously I was wrong." Madame was once one of those ballerinas, talked into a trip to the fair with her suitor; unbeknown to Erik she had been somewhere in the sea of goggling faces beyond his cage, horrified, pulling Jules Giry away from the sight. Her voice dripped disapproval. "What are you suggesting, Christine?" she asked.

The mattress shifted slightly and there was a rough, wet sensation on Erik's cheek as Bruno rasped it with his tongue, evidently realising that his master was awake. It took all of Erik's self-control not to move; the conversation was too interesting to interrupt. With a whine the dog flopped back down, head this time on Erik's upper arm. Christine must have noticed for the next moment Bruno was being lifted from the bed, much to his displeasure; he gave an annoyed yap, which Christine quickly shushed.

"Hush, Bruno, you'll wake him!" she admonished the spaniel. Bruno must have settled down again as she returned her attention to Antoinette. "Do you not find it an incredible coincidence that not long after a gypsy carnival arrives in Paris Erik is brutally attacked? He has told me something about his time in the fairs and I know what they did to him."

"There have been carnivals and circuses in town many times over the last twenty years and Erik has suffered no persecution," Antoinette pointed out. "Is it really likely that the man who abducted and imprisoned him is still travelling the country?"

Erik almost opened his mouth to dispute that assumption, but Christine beat him to it. "For most of that time, Erik was hiding from the world; even if they were looking they would not have found him. But he has stepped out of the darkness and I cannot see that this incident, following so closely on those articles about us in the press, can be merely chance, Madame. Those men took nothing from him; if it was just a random attack, why leave his gold watch and a wallet full of money? They could have just hit him over the head, stripped him of his valuables and run, but Teddy told me that they were enjoying pummelling him, giving him no chance to defend himself. No opportunist thief would do such a thing."

Antoinette made a non-committal noise. "Look at him, Madame," Christine said. "Do you really believe that a group of thieves would batter a man like this for a few hundred francs?"

Another pause, a longer one this time, until eventually Madame Giry sighed. "No," she replied, "No, I don't, though in truth I don't _want_ to believe it. If you could have seen what I did in that fair, Christine, though God forbid that you ever do..." There was a rustle of fabric, and Erik assumed she had sat down. He tensed, bracing himself for the revelations she was sure to make, for the facts that he could not bring himself to tell Christine. "I cannot bear the thought that they kept a man of such talent and genius like a beast, worse than a beast! A dog would have received more consideration. In my mind's eye I can still see that cage with its padlock, and its occupant... he was filthy, Christine, dressed in rags and so thin..! I know that he is not the healthiest specimen now but back then he was emaciated, as though they barely fed him. He does not remember it but he looked straight at me, and though his face was terrible to behold I saw such sadness, such loneliness in his eyes... I wanted with all my heart to help him but there was nothing I could do."

"You did help him, Madame," Christine told her as Erik struggled to comprehend the implication of the ballet mistress's words. One face among many, the only one to have regarded him with compassion during those dreadful years, and yet he could not recall that fleeting moment when their eyes met. "Maybe not then, but you _did_ help. I am sure Erik would agree that he has at last gained the life he always dreamed of because of you."

Antoinette sniffed, and Erik's eyes (as far as they were able) almost flew open in surprise. He had never heard her cry before. Could she really be crying over _him_? "If he has regained any humanity it is because of you, my dear, not me," she said. "That he draws his strength from your love is obvious to anyone who sees you together."

"But you saw the good in him before anyone else did," Christine insisted. "I know he helped you that night when Buquet tried to..." She trailed off, obviously embarrassed at referring to such a sordid situation, but continued after a moment's thought, her tone firm, "If you had not helped him in return none of us would be here now. Who can say what might have happened? Erik might never have even noticed me, and I would still be trying to convince everyone that I could make it as a dancer. Maybe I would have married Raoul, or I might not have even joined the Opera in the first place."

Silence fell between the two women. Erik had almost dropped off when Madame Giry spoke again.

"If these gypsies were behind the attack," she said, surprisingly tentative, "what do you think Erik will do?"

It was a few moments before Christine replied, and Erik could have wept at the trace of fear in her voice. "I don't know, Madame. I really don't know."


	44. The Storyteller

**Author's Note:**

As I've not had the time to research gypsy fairs of the mid 19th century, I just wanted to make it clear that the depiction contained in this chapter comes purely from my imagination.

* * *

**THE STORYTELLER**

It was strange, how soothing Christine found it to watch Erik sleep.

She had become used to it over the past few months, during those weeks when she would sit with him while he was recovering from the gunshot wound, tending to his needs and talking quietly until exhaustion claimed him again. As long as bad dreams did not bother him he looked quite peaceful, vulnerable almost, rest smoothing away the lines of care and suffering that had wrought themselves upon his face over the course of his life. Even the deformity did not look so bad when he relaxed, she had discovered; though it was still horrible, and shocking in the extreme for those who had never seen it before, when he slept it was easier to accept it for what it was, a part of him, the other half that made up the whole. Usually he would bury it in the pillow, instinctively hiding, but the black eye that had painfully swollen that delicate side of his face made such an action impossible. Christine found herself wondering not for the first time how some accident of birth could have so entirely ravaged his features, twisting the skin and muscle in on itself in some areas and stretching it paper thin in others so that the bones almost pushed their way through. The eye on that side sank back into his head, and at present the flesh surrounding it had puffed up so much that it was almost impossible to see. His lips, bloated and flaring out across his distorted cheek, were cut and split, their already purplish hue darkening as the bruises they had sustained gradually blossomed.

Thankfully the more superficial injuries to the normal side of his face were healing, the scrapes closing up and disappearing. It seemed that the men who had attacked him concentrated their attentions on the weaker half, knowing that it would cause him more pain. Christine was convinced now of the identity of those men, but she had not yet summoned the courage to ask Erik; she had no way of knowing how he might react, and she did not want him to harm himself further. He was already incensed that she had abandoned her role in _Rigoletto_ to look after him, claiming that another absence would do nothing for her reputation as a singer. Nettled, she retorted that any previous time off had mainly been his fault, not hers, which had stymied him long enough for her to get more laudanum down his throat.

Now she sat beside him, her eyes on his still form as he breathed uncomfortably but steadily in and out. The calling card she had been given by Didier Tolbert was in her hand and she flipped it between her fingers; she wanted to know about the gypsies from the carnival, but was reluctant to involve a stranger in such an affair. Would it be possible to ask for information without revealing why? Theodora had accepted her refusal to involve the police at least until Erik was able to give an account of the attack, but Christine was sure Monsieur Patterson-Smythe was becoming suspicious as to the real reason for her reluctance to act.

"You look very pensive. Is something the matter?"

Christine realised that her attention had wandered to the small rectangle of card in her hand; glancing up she found Erik's eyes upon her and a frown touching his battered forehead. "It's nothing," she said, helping him to sit up when he shifted restlessly against the pillows. He hated being incapacitated; she knew that left to his own devices he would have dragged himself back down to the cellars of the Opera by now.

"Logically it must be _something_," he insisted; she tried to hide the card in her skirts but he had noticed it as she should have known he would. "What do you have there?"

"Nothing - " she began, and shook her head ruefully as he quirked his one serviceable eyebrow at her, grimacing when the movement caused him discomfort. Holding out the card she admitted, "One of the journalists gave it to me. He was very sweet, Erik, he wasn't one of that group of prying hacks - "

Erik took the card, squinting at the copperplate script. "Have you contacted him?" he enquired as he handed it back, his voice deceptively even.

"No, I have not," Christine replied.

"But you were thinking about it." With a sigh he leaned his head back, letting his eyelids fall closed. "You want to know the identity of my assailants."

"Erik - "

"It is quite understandable; you are naturally curious."

Christine regarded him hesitantly. She had been convinced that he would be furious at even the merest suggestion of contacting Tolbert; this apparently calm acceptance was not like him at all, especially given the trials they had already been forced to endure from the press. "Erik, I won't do anything with which you do not agree," she told him. "I was merely concerned for you, that they might come back and try to finish what they began."

"It is unlikely. They will be moving on soon." One eye, the left one in which his vision was unobstructed, opened again. She must have betrayed her surprise for he nodded slightly. "You had already worked out their heritage, had you not?"

"So they _were_ gypsies..." Christine breathed. "How did you know that I - "

"I overheard you telling Antoinette." Erik looked slightly sheepish for a moment, before his expression hardened. He extended a hand to her, and when she took it drew her closer to sit on the edge of the bed. Biting back a groan as he tried to take a deep breath, he looked at her seriously. "Christine, I want you to promise me something."

"Of course. You have only to ask," she said, slightly confused as to where he was heading with this.

"I know you have already given me your word that you will go nowhere near that fair, but I want you to add to that promise one that you will make no attempt to hunt out the men who attacked me, or set a journalist on their track. They are dangerous, and were not raised in the more civilised world that you know; they are cruel, they regard anyone and anything that they see as inferior to be fair game, and that includes women." Erik's voice was becoming a rasp, his breathing laboured; he squeezed her hand, so tightly that Christine could not help but wince. "I have seen them do... unspeakable things."

"Calm yourself, my Angel," Christine implored, concerned that he was working himself into a state that could be harmful. His chest rose and fell erratically, straining against the restrictive bandages."I promise, of course I do."

"Good," he panted. "Good..."

There was a long pause. She leaned forwards, brushing back his hair and stroking the good side of his face, her thumb caressing the fingers of the hand that still loosely held hers. He was silent, his breath gradually settling and steadying once more, and she thought he had fallen asleep when he said quietly, "I know there is a question you wish to ask."

"There are several," Christine answered truthfully, "but if you would rather not answer I will keep them for another day."

"You already know of my degradation at the hands of those people." Erik sounded dreadfully weary. He waved a vague hand. "Ask away, and I will answer."

"Erik - "

"Ask!" he snapped impatiently, and then, immediately contrite, added, "Please, Christine. This is not easy for me."

Christine kissed his knuckles. "If you are absolutely sure." He gave a terse little nod, and so she asked, "Did you know the men who attacked you?"

"One of them. The others were merely hangers-on, thugs eager for some fun. When they saw me I can imagine that they thought all their Christmases, if they believe in such things, had come at once." Erik's gaze was fixed on the far wall and the pier-glass mirror that hung opposite the bed, for once actually staring at the reflection he usually tried so hard to avoid. "Their leader is called Grigore; if he has a surname I never learnt it. It was his father who abducted and imprisoned me; as a child Grigore used to do his best to bring humiliation down upon my head, whether it was by hurling rotten fruit at me through the bars or stealing what little food or the only blanket I had. As he grew it became clear that he would be as sadistic as the brute that sired him."

"Why now, Erik? Why should he seek you out now? It has been years since you escaped that dreadful place."

A sneer touched his misshapen lips. "My own foolishness is to blame. I was stupid enough to believe leading a normal life would have no repercussions; that I would be allowed to finally be a man and not a monster. Those reports in the press put paid to any hope of that. When Grigore saw the sketch of the two of us that appeared in _La Monde_ he recognised me immediately, and courting one of Antoinette's feather-brained ballerinas confirmed his suspicions that I had not died after all. I imagine he vowed to hunt me down from that very moment."

Christine could not help but feel bewildered. "But why do so now, after so long? Has he been looking for you all this time? What does he hope to achieve?"

"So many questions, my dear," Erik said with a sigh."I can answer them with just one word: revenge."

"Revenge for what?" She clamped her mouth shut on yet another question. "I cannot see how beating you to within an inch of your life now could possibly make anything better!"

His eyes fell closed again and he turned his face away, as though he was unable to look at her, or his own reflection, any longer. When he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse."Would you not do the same, Christine, if I had killed _your_ father?"

* * *

Christine felt suddenly cold.

She knew that he had killed before; he admitted as much months ago on the rooftop when she asked him for the truth about the death of Joseph Buquet. Though he had not been responsible for the fly chief's demise, he confessed to having blood on his hands in the past. His rescue of Madame Giry had not been clean; two men died that night with the Punjab lasso about their necks, and there must have been more for he had learned to use the weapon with such deadly effect that Buquet had told stories, heavily embroidered though they might have been, about it. Violence, whether he embraced it or not, seemed to dog his footsteps; there was so much of his life that was still a mystery.

"You are disgusted," Erik said, blindly interpreting her silence as horror. He tried to withdraw his hand from hers but she would not let him go; in surprise he stared up at her. "I did not wish to tell you but you know I can deny you nothing. I will not blame you if you wish to run as far away from me as possible, knowing as you do now of that which I am capable. I killed him and I enjoyed it; I could have laughed aloud as I snapped his filthy neck. No other death at my hands was quite so enjoyable, quite so satisfying. I wish I could have killed him a hundred times over!" He was trying to scare her, she knew, to bring the Phantom in him to the fore, but it would not work. She was determined not to be that easily-frightened girl any longer; her world was no longer simple black and white but myriad shades of grey. The silence dragged on and panic began to flare in his mismatched eyes. "Christine? Christine, please say something," he begged.

"There must have been a reason." Her voice was much calmer than she expected. She turned her head to meet his gaze. "You suffered for nearly two years at his hands; was his terrible treatment of you responsible, or did something else happen to make you do it?"

"Was the daily torment not enough?" he asked bitterly.

"Have you killed every man who made your life a misery?" Christine countered. "If you are so intent now upon driving me away, why do you not provide me with a list?"

His eyes were wide in his battered face. "How can you ask such a thing of me? I will die without you, Christine!"

"Well, then, tell me what happened; tell me why you were driven to take his life. It is the past, Erik, and people change."

"Yet, as they say, a leopard cannot change his spots," Erik said sadly. He rested his head against the pillows, as if gathering his strength. After a pause he began, in the tone of one telling a story, "Picture, if you will, a fairground of tents and caravans, a small town constantly on the move. There are tumblers and acrobats, magicians and exotic animals; the air is alive with the smell of wood smoke and unwashed bodies; ragged, barefooted children run in and out, chased by their mothers and cuffed by their fathers. A strange language fills your ears, and raucous, intoxicating music draws you in. It is a world of fantasy and wonder, of flaming torches and dazzling tricks; any paying visitor will see only that which the showmen wish them to see, the darker, less palatable aspects of such a life hidden away in the shadows. They will entice you in and take your coin, make you laugh, make you dance, show you the colourful and the amazing before they allow you to venture into that darkness to see the creatures cursed by nature, touched by the Devil. It is all in the name of fun; human beings like to be scared as long as the fright is within their control. Goggling at those less fortunate makes them feel better about themselves; even if their lives are going nowhere and they can barely afford the rent, at least they do not have missing limbs or the face of a corpse.

"The man running the carnival is a king within his world. Though he might have a wife and a whole troupe of children that does not stop him taking whatever he wants, whenever he wishes. The women under his command know that he or one of his equally repulsive cohorts might decide to turn upon them at any time and have their way. It is an unwritten law and they accept it, as where would they go if they left the fair? The outside world is suspicious of their kind, and no one would take them in. They have no trade, no education, so there is nothing with which they might make their way alone; while the men read and write the women are kept deliberately in ignorance so that they might be more easily subjugated. I have seen the most beautiful young girls, barely at the start of adulthood, tied to lascivious men who might be their fathers, their grandfathers even, tossed about between their compatriots like toys until they become shells, old and withered before their time.

"You see much through the bars of a cage when there is nothing more to occupy your days. Sometimes, when Dumitru had had his fill of battering me, he would turn his attention to... other matters. Violence ignited his desire; as I lay in the straw I watched him take more than one girl into his caravan. When she emerged, she would usually have a bruised face and torn dress; I tried not to listen to the grunts and screams." Erik glanced at Christine, hesitating. "I am sorry; you should not be hearing this. It is not for such innocent ears."

"I am not a child," she told him firmly, even though the shock consuming her must have shown on her face. She had not expected the carnival life to be easy but the reality was far, far worse than she could have imagined. Even having worked at the Opera for six years her own life had been sheltered, positively cloistered, in comparison. "I want to know; I _need_ to know."

"You should not. It is a part of my past I would rather forget, but I am not permitted such a luxury."

"It _is_ your past, and that is why I wish to know. Please don't keep protecting me, Erik; I am stronger than you think," Christine said. "I would rather hear the truth, even though it might be horrible, than remain in ignorance."

He looked tired, and she felt guilty for making him talk for so long when he obviously needed to rest, but he nodded. "Very well. Usually the brute reserved his attentions for girls who were at least on the cusp of womanhood but eventually his eye began to stray. There was a child, Catalina, a tiny, scrawny little creature with matted fair hair and a shy smile; the poor thing was mute, so she would never be any use around the fair, and she was treated hardly better than a dog. She would sometimes visit me, clapping her hands in delight if I sang for her, and bring me scraps from her mother's table. She could have been no more than six or seven. Dumitru usually liked to beat me if he felt I had not made him enough money, which was almost every night; perhaps my voice would be slightly rough, or I had not chosen appropriate pieces with which to amuse the gawping public. He waited until the rest of the camp were at dinner around the fire and let himself into the cage, horsewhip in hand. It was unfortunate that on one particular evening Catalina decided she would come to see me, to hear another chapter of the tale I had been telling her for a while, an elaborate fancy made up on the spur of the moment when she seemed upset. She arrived just as Dumitru began his fun, smacking me across the head so that I fell against the bars."

Christine squeezed his hand. "What happened?" she asked gently.

"She saw my face." Erik voice was emotionless now, as if he were recalling events experienced by someone else. "During our previous encounters I had managed to keep the worst of it hidden from her, but quite suddenly there it was, displayed for all to see. She screamed, naturally, even though she had no voice, and the sight of her dirty little features screwed up in terror was like a knife to my heart. Dumitru laughed. 'You see, you twisted piece of filth?' he cried, 'Another child given nightmares by your ugly face! Watch her run!' But she didn't run, Christine, she stayed, staring at me. It was a mistake; that brute looked at her with cold calculation in his eyes and scratching at his groin he left the cage, strolling over to her. In a flash I knew that he intended her to be his entertainment once he was done with me; I pulled myself up from the floor, my head still spinning from the blow, and realised that in his lust he had left the door open. He was talking to Catalina, stroking her cheek with those groping fingers of his, grabbing her when she tried too late to run from him, and something within me snapped: I launched myself from the cage, finding strength I thought had left me, and hurled myself at him. With a roar of fury he tried to throw me off but I held on tight, my arm around his throat, desperate to cut off his air.

"We grappled for what seemed like an eternity as he did his best to knock me from his back as though I were an insect causing him annoyance. The whip was still in his grasp and the thong flailed madly around my head; it was a split-second decision to let go with one hand and catch it, not caring about the damage it might do. Dumitru took the opportunity to almost buck me off; my scant strength was failing me but I managed to get the whip around his neck and pulled on it with all my might. Strangling a man is not pretty, Christine, it is brutal and terrible, but I was elated when I felt that monster's neck snap beneath my hands. He called me a beast and a demon, but his crimes were greater than mine.

"The enormity of what I had done took several moments to sink in. I let his body fall to the ground, knowing that I must move fast; someone was bound to walk past and find me and the corpse and then my life would not be worth a centime. To my amazement, Catalina crawled out from beneath a nearby caravan; she grabbed my hand and began to pull me away from Dumitru, into the maze of tents and wagons. I followed, barely even aware of what I was going to do next. I heard a shout from behind, and then another; she led me in and out of the shadows to the edge of the camp and gave me a push, gesturing for me to hurry. I ran, never looking back. They came looking for me but I had already learned by then how to hide. I pushed myself to the brink of exhaustion, covering several miles overnight, and arrived early the next morning in a town, where I did my best to disappear. Two months later I was in Paris once more." Erik turned his head carefully on the pillow. There was no triumph, no glee in his face, no sense of victory over the man who had made his life and that of others a waking nightmare. He looked tired, as though drained by the effort of telling his tale to another person; Christine doubted that he had ever spoken about Dumitru's death to anyone before. "Well?" he asked, eyes searching her features as though he expected to find hatred and disgust there. "What do you think of me now, Christine? Do you still wish to marry a murderer?"

"I cannot condone or condemn in this, it is between you and God." She touched the little silver crucifix at her throat. "He sees into your soul and will make the final judgement."

"But what do _you_ see?"

"I see a man who has been subjected to unbearable cruelty, who has killed in order to protect himself and others and, no matter what he says, regrets that action," Christine said carefully. "You had no more right to take that brute's life than he did to hold you there against your will, but in doing so you saved that child from a terrible fate and you do not glory in his death, not any more. I see a man who can be saved, a man who is not without hope." She reached out and cupped his cheek with her hand, stroking his jaw. "Thank you for telling me."

A tear spilled from his right eye, trickling over the bruised, swollen flesh and the crevices in his distorted features like water down a rock fall. "Oh, Christine," he whispered. "If only you could absolve all my sins."

They sat there in silence for some time, the tension that had grown within the room evaporating. "What will you do?" Christine asked eventually. "Will you go after them?"

Erik watched her face again, brow furrowed. "Do you expect me to?"

"I was afraid..." She trailed off, failing to find the right words.

"Christine, no... You have no need to be afraid of Erik." The disappointed light in his eyes was almost heartbreaking. "You have nothing to fear; he would never hurt you."

Christine shook her head. "I do not fear you, Erik, but I _do_ fear your temper and what it might lead you to. I was afraid _for_ you, not of you."

"You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that." Lifting their clasped hands he pressed a gentle kiss to her wrist before letting his eyes fall closed once more. "In answer to your question, I will do nothing. There is nothing to be gained from pursuing them. The past is dead; let it remain so."

"Thank you," Christine said, and Erik smiled.


	45. Man to Man

**Author's Note:**

_Garish Light_ has now officially become the longest fic I have ever written! And there's still plenty more story to tell...

* * *

**MAN TO MAN**

"Good afternoon, Monsieur! How does it feel to have the man who may be the Phantom of the Opera under your roof?"

Gritting his teeth, James Patterson-Smythe turned to face the grinning hack in the loud checked suit who had been hanging around outside the house for the past few days. He had tried to accost Theodora, but she made her feelings quite plain, ending with a sharp stamp on his foot with her high heel when he would not let her pass. The man was still limping. "I thought I told you yesterday to clear off?" Jimmy asked as the journalist, whom Christine Daae had identified as one Francois Béringer, nonchalantly lit up a cigarette. "We have nothing to say to you."

"I just thought you might like to know something about the fellow you're harbouring," Béringer said, his tone casual. "By all accounts the Phantom kidnapped Christine Daae, threatened the Vicomte de Chagny and several of those high up in the Opera Populaire, and was probably responsible for the falling chandelier that damaged the theatre and nearly killed several of the patrons. I'd keep a close eye on him if I were you."

"That is all just idiotic gossip," Patterson-Smythe told him, straightening his cuffs. "You have a wonderful imagination; perhaps you should write fiction instead of reporting tittle-tattle."

Béringer, suddenly angry, shoved his face into Jimmy's. "It's more than gossip, Monsieur! I'm going to prove it, I promise you!"

"Well, you'll find nothing to aid you here! I'll not have you causing distress to Miss Merriman and her guests." The journalist looked slightly shifty as Jimmy reached into his coat for his pocket book. Licking the end of his pencil, he fixed Béringer with a steady glare. "Which editor do you report to? I'll be sending my lawyers straight round."

Béringer ignored the question. "Have you seen that devil's face?"

"What if I have? You ever been near a battlefield, buddy? Plenty more to shock you there," Patterson-Smythe said. "My old dad fought for the Union back in the Civil War and some of the things he saw would give you nightmares for the rest of your life."

"The Phantom was said to have a disfigured face," Béringer insisted. "Skin like parchment and a great black hole where his nose should have been. Eyes that glowed, in sockets that were nothing more than huge dark caverns."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "You've been reading too many of Mr Poe's stories, my friend. Have _you_ seen Erik Claudin's face? Because that does not sound like a description of the man I rescued last week. I think I might have noticed if he was missing a nose."

"All stories have to start somewhere." The journalist glanced up at one of the first floor windows, where a shadow could be seen behind the blinds. A calculating expression came over his rat-like face. "Just think of it, Monsieur: if you aid me I could finally publish the truth about that man. It would be the pinnacle of my career; every newspaper in Paris would clamour for the story! There would be bidding wars... we could make a fortune, you and I!"

"Huh." Patterson-Smythe looked the other man up and down. Béringer had the crumpled aspect of a habitual drinker, coupled with the overweening arrogance of the confidence trickster. His gaze was almost too direct, his smile too sincere. In his years on the circuits in New York and its environs, promoting his clients and working his way up from the backstreet bars to the leading theatres of the city, Jimmy had come across many of the kind, and he would not trust any of them further than he could throw them. Though he might have had his own doubts about the man occupying one of Theodora's bedrooms, he had no intention of listening to the tales spun by a hack to whom lying was apparently as natural as breathing. Christine Daae had been very vocal upon the subject of Monsieur Béringer, and Jimmy found himself inclined to believe her. He glanced down at his feet, chewing on his moustache for a moment, before straightening abruptly and grabbing the journalist by the lapels. "Listen, chum, do you really think I _need_ to make a fortune? I'm doing quite nicely, thanks all the same. Now," he added as Béringer began to protest, "how about you turn around and high-tail it out of here before I decide to report _you_ to whomever I think appropriate for harassing my client? Miss Merriman is pretty well-known on the international stage and I really don't think her admirers will be too pleased to discover that you're trying to ruin her reputation by claiming that she consorts with madmen."

"You... just you wait!" Béringer exclaimed, jabbing a finger into Jimmy's chest. "I'll uncover the truth and then you'll all be sorry! You'll wish you'd listened!"

"Yeah, yeah... when there's a chandelier hurtling towards my head as I cross the lobby you can say I told you so." Jimmy threw the man away from him; Béringer stumbled and almost ended up in the gutter. Reflecting that it was probably the best place for him, he brushed off his sleeves and turned to Bonner the butler, who, upon evidently having observed the altercation, had approached on silent feet.

"Is this... person giving you trouble, Monsieur?" he enquired in the faintly bored tone which seemed to be his normal manner of speaking. "If so I will have him removed. He has already been told to leave more than once."

"I think I can handle it, but thank you." Jimmy glanced at Béringer from the corner of his eye; muttering, the journalist picked himself up, and, with a foul look in their direction, began to limp off down the street. His shabby suit was covered in mud. "Is Mademoiselle Merriman back yet?"

"I believe she is still at the theatre, sir. There was a rehearsal; Mademoiselle Daae went with her," Bonner replied. "Mademoiselle Speedwell has also gone out."

Movement at the window above caught Patterson-Smythe's eye. He mentally counted the rooms and realised that it belonged to the one in which Teddy's injured chorus master was staying. "Fine, fine." He ascended the front steps, the butler following in his wake. "Send a bottle of brandy and two glasses up to Monsieur Claudin's room, will you?"

"Of course, Monsieur. Oh, sir - " Bonner called as Jimmy threw hat and gloves on the hall table and strode towards the stairs; when he turned the butler was holding a bottle of cognac which Jimmy's trained eye could tell from ten paces was an excellent vintage. "This was left for Monsieur Claudin earlier. I was told that the gentleman was sleeping, and did not wish to disturb him, but if you..."

"Very well, I'll take it." Extending a hand, Jimmy took the proffered bottle. He examined the label, confirming his suspicions that it was a Courvoisier, and passed it back to Bonner. "On second thoughts, open this, will you, and send it up with the glasses? It will do nicely. Who's it from?"

The butler inclined his head. "It was sent by the managers of the Opera, sir. I believe they are most anxious to know when Monsieur Claudin will be returning."

* * *

Patterson-Smythe knocked once on the door and turned the handle without waiting for a reply.

Claudin was still standing by the window; Jimmy had been able to guess at his height when he and Georges carried the man into the house nearly two weeks earlier, but it was only now he was on his own two feet that it became clear exactly how tall Erik was. Jimmy always thought himself above the average but decided Claudin must top him by at least three inches. His lean frame was wrapped in an extravagantly embroidered oriental robe, a fire-breathing Chinese dragon snaking its way down his back. Upon hearing the door open he swung around, the speed at which he moved forcing Jimmy to take a step back as though faced with a serpent about to strike; the battered features were twisted in a snarl, teeth bared, as Claudin's right hand flew up to cover his deformity. Confronted with such outright hostility, the eyes, even the one Jimmy could only just see as it peered at him through impossibly long fingers, blazing angrily, he could for a moment understand how a silly singer at the Opera might have believed this man to be a monster. He felt his jaw fall open, and all thought of confronting Claudin about Béringer's accusations fled from his mind.

"Does no one in this house respect the privacy of others?" Erik demanded, his melodious voice practically vibrating with fury.

Recovering himself and glad that Theodora's guest was still weak from his injuries, Jimmy shrugged. "If I'd waited would you have let me in? No, you would have told me to go away, just as you told Bonner and the doctor yesterday."

"Can you blame me? I do not know you, Monsieur, and I am not in the habit of socialising."

"Maybe it's time you started," Jimmy said, closing the door behind him. "You can stop hiding your face if you want; I'm not here to hurt you and I got an eyeful the night we brought you here."

"If that is true, I would expect you to prefer me to cover it," Claudin replied bitterly. "Virtually everyone else does."

Jimmy shrugged again. "You're one ugly son of a bitch but I've seen worse in my time."

The other man's eyebrow twitched upwards. "America must be far more tolerant of such things than we are here in France. This face once caused a dozen women to faint in concert, and three grown men to vomit into their hats. I was told that there was a case of an apoplectic stroke, but it may just have been a story."

"Impressive." Jimmy gave a low whistle. "Sounds like you should have started a circus act. You could have made a mint."

Erik glared at him through his fingers. "I did," he snapped, "but all the money went to line someone else's pockets."

"Bad promoter. I would have offered you thirty-five percent, plus a bonus at the end of the season. Couldn't say fairer than that."

"Indeed not!" A harsh, humourless laugh came from behind that long white hand. "I prefer to think of him as my jailer. The term 'promoter' tends to give the impression that the act is performing through personal choice rather than coercion."

Jimmy's eyes widened as comprehension dawned. He was aware of the freak shows in New York, had even visited a couple on Coney Island, but it never really occurred to him to look into the treatment and conditions of those working there. He always assumed, from right back when his grandfather had taken him to see Barnum's circus and the tiny boy called General Tom Thumb, that such people used their deformities to give themselves an income. It seemed he had been wrong. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he said, "I've sent for some cognac. Will you have a drink with me, Monsieur?"

After a slight pause Claudin nodded. He lowered his hand fractionally but did not remove it. Turning properly into the room he stumbled, catching himself on the nearby chest of drawers; Jimmy moved forwards to offer assistance but was waved away. Carefully, one arm crossed protectively over his torso to guard his bruised ribs, Erik staggered back towards the bed. His tense shoulders relaxed slightly as he sat down heavily on the mattress; head turned away so that the distorted side would be cast into shadow, he finally let his hand drop. "Christine has told me how you helped me after the attack," he said after a deep sigh that made him wince. He gave Jimmy a sidelong glance. "You must forgive me; I am not used to being beholden to others."

"No one likes to be a debtor, Mister Claudin."

"True. But you have my gratitude nonetheless. I have no doubt that had you and Mademoiselle Merriman not arrived when you did my assailants would have finished me off and dumped my body in the river." Erik offered a hand. When Jimmy, not expecting this rapid change of heart, made no move to take it Claudin's face fell, the expression making him look like a lost little boy. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, his tone now almost plaintive. "I understood that this was the kind of gesture to make under such circumstances."

It was incredible how someone could change from belligerent fury to bewildered child in such a short space of time. Hurriedly, Jimmy clasped the proffered hand, startled by how cold it was. Claudin shook his twice, quickly, before withdrawing as though the touch of another person was distasteful. Or perhaps because he thought his own might be unwanted, Jimmy realised. Thankfully he was excused a response as there was a light tap at the door and he opened it to reveal Chloe standing there with a tray, upon which stood the managers' brandy and two crystal snifters. With a whispered thank you he took it from her and retreated, pushing the door closed with his foot.

Erik had reclined against the pillows, though he remained in a sitting position, doubtless reluctant to show weakness before another man. Jimmy could sympathise with that. His hand was back over his face; on the table beside the bed lay a white porcelain mask, an elegant thing, perfectly sculpted so that it would cover the ravaged side. It was obvious, however, that though the swelling around Claudin's right eye had almost gone down it would be several more days before he could stand to wear something so constricting over his abused flesh. He looked up in surprise when Jimmy flourished the bottle of Courvoisier, label outwards.

"Where did that come from?" he asked.

"Your bosses. Remind me at our next meeting to compliment them on their excellent taste."

Claudin's mouth twitched, the closest he had come to a smile since Jimmy entered the room. "Monsieur Fontaine's cellar will be empty if he keeps this up. That is the second bottle of brandy he has sent me this month."

"Sounds like they're desperate to have you back," Jimmy remarked, busying himself with the drinks.

"I am not happy about my enforced absence." Erik sounded frustrated. His fist pounded the mattress. "It is my intention to return to work on Monday."

"Monday? I admire your optimism, my friend; you can barely stand unaided."

"Nevertheless, I will be there if I have to use a cane and sit in a chair for the entire rehearsal. We should be past the read-through stage by now – so much time wasted!" A noise, akin to a growl, rumbled in Erik's thin chest. "I can continue to rehearse Christine and Theodora here but the situation is far from ideal; I have a reputation to maintain."

"And journalists to placate. That Francois Béringer was outside when I arrived," Jimmy added, holding out a glass. His companion's head snapped round, the ravaged features locked in a scowl. "Dreadful little man; he tried to write some nonsense about Teddy before we arrived but I jumped on him pretty hard, threatened legal action. He's quite crazy: thinks you're the Opera Ghost, you know."

Once again, Erik Claudin moved faster than any wounded man should have been rightly able. He grabbed Jimmy by the lapels, eyes searching his face, making Patterson-Smythe slosh cognac over the floor. "Béringer? How long has he been hanging around?"

"No idea; the last few days, maybe? Hey, there's no need to get physical," Jimmy told him, looking down to where those long fingers were crushing the nap of his jacket. "This is my second best suit, and you're strangling it."

Realising how tightly he was holding the fabric, Erik slowly released his grip, sinking back against the pillows. He gave a half-hearted attempt at smoothing down one of the wrinkled lapels. "My apologies. That man's name has a less-than dignified effect upon me. I would quite like to wring his neck; he has been harassing Christine for weeks."

"I saw him off. If he gives you any more trouble just let me know; I'll get my lawyers involved on your behalf. Why does he have it in for you and the lovely Miss Daae, and who is this Augustine Albert who was screaming hysterically all over the papers?" Jimmy enquired, pulling up a chair close to the bed and sitting down. He never could resist gossip. "An old flame?"

"Hardly. You think women have been queuing up over the years to cover _this_ with kisses?" Erik threw up a hand towards his face. He took a gulp of his brandy. "She is a mediocre singer who thought to inveigle her way into my bed, I assume to gain advancement; my mask attracted her curiosity but she did not like what she found beneath it. Her lurid tales, which she apparently sold to Monsieur Béringer, have only fanned the flames of his wild theories."

Jimmy regarded him over the rim of his glass. "_Are_ you the Phantom?"

"Would I tell you if I were?" Claudin countered, meeting his host's gaze with a steady one of his own.

"Probably not." Jimmy broke into a laugh. "I did wonder, though, when we picked you up. Teddy was telling me about the rumours that are still flying around the Populaire."

"Rumours will always fly if people give them wings. Because Erik is ugly he must therefore naturally be the spectre described by drunken stagehands with overblown imaginations."

"The papers said that the Phantom was real; he abducted Christine Daae, after all. And the chandelier - " Jimmy broke off when Claudin wagged a long finger at him, shaking his head. "No?"

"_Béringer_ said that. He has no proof of anything. The chains supporting the chandelier were rusted; maintenance workers gave a report to the managers a few days before the premiere of _Il Muto_ but were ignored. It is true that a man - an... admirer - became obsessed with Christine, but she was never abducted." Erik drained his glass and set it carefully down on the bedside table next to his mask. "She came to me, her teacher, after her debut, needing reassurance. The 'Phantom' had little to do with it."

"You seem to know a lot about it for a man with no role in the theatre at the time," Jimmy remarked.

Again, that slight smile touched the misshapen lips. "My cousin _is_ the ballet mistress, Monsieur. There is little that escapes Madame Giry's attention."

"I can believe that." Jimmy had met the stern woman in black two days before, when he nearly bumped into her on the stairs. Though she had been perfectly polite, the look that she had given him almost made him quiver in expectation of a reprimand for sins unknown. He had not realised that she was related to Erik, but now that he knew he couldn't help wondering why he had not guessed before. They both had a distinctly unnerving quality about them. He got up and poured another measure for them both, raising his glass. "I would like to propose a toast: to the wonderful women in our lives, and the downfall of all journalists. May they rot in hell!"

Claudin's smile widened, and he clinked his glass against Jimmy's. "Now that is a sentiment with which I can most wholeheartedly agree."


	46. Getting Warmer

**GETTING WARMER**

"Whatever it is you are looking for, Signor, I very much doubt that you will find it in Christine Daae's dressing room."

Madame Giry was gratified to see Antonio Rossi jump at the sound of her voice; clearly he had thought that no one had seen him sneaking into Christine's room and had failed to notice her reflection in the mirror as she stood in the doorway. Slowly he turned, the corners of his mouth tilted in one of his barely-perceptible smiles. He spread his hands, as though showing her that he meant no harm.

"Signora Giry, how pleasant to see you," he said smoothly. "You must forgive me; I did not hear you come in."

"What are you doing in here?" Antoinette demanded, as unswayed by flattery as ever. If someone tried to compliment her it usually meant they either wanted something or were trying to wheedle their way round her; whatever the case, it would not work. "It is not done for the men of the company, especially those in senior positions, to be hanging around the female dressing rooms."

"Forgive me," Rossi said again. "Someone told me that this was my sister's room before it came to Signorina Daae; I merely wanted a little look, to satisfy my curiosity."

Madame Giry didn't believe him for a moment. "The Prima Donna's room is that way, near your own," she told him, pointing down the corridor. "When Signora Giudicelli first arrived she was allocated the dressing room that is currently occupied by Marie Durant. Mademoiselle Durant is a generous and helpful woman but I don't imagine she will much like your poking around in her things either. And woe betide you if I ever catch you anywhere near the dancers' lounge - "

"You misunderstand me, Signora." The tone of the tenor's voice took on a subtle change; she didn't miss the threat in it, reminiscent of Erik at his angriest. His little black eyes narrowed. "My motives are not sinister or lascivious and I can assure you that I have no interest whatsoever in your ballerinas. Carlotta told me of your obstructive nature and I can see that she was not exaggerating."

"Exaggeration was something to which she was, and no doubt still is, sadly prone. I do not recall her ever stopping to check the facts of a story before telling the rest of the world at as loud a volume as possible."

Rossi's olive complexion darkened as blood suffused his face. His hands clenched into fists and Antoinette was sure that, had she been a man, he would have struck her. She was not entirely sure what had prompted her to make such accusations about La Carlotta, whether it was the insult she had just been given or a desire to knock the troublesome diva off the pedestal upon which she had evidently been placed by her family. Either way, a desire to speak the truth rose within her and she surrendered to it, unprofessional though it may be. It was unlikely that there would be anyone within the building other than Rossi who would disagree with her statements. "It is unbecoming for one woman to belittle another," Rossi said, "especially when the one being maligned is a performer of great talent and integrity. I would ask for you to take back those ill-chosen words, Signora, unless you wish me to make a formal complaint to the managers. I could have you dismissed from your post."

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "I would not advise you to try, Signor. I am sure they would be very interested were I to tell them how I found you here in an artiste's private room, apparently having broken in."

"I did no such thing!" He looked scandalised, and those chubby hands flew up between them, palms outward as though he thought he could ward her off like an evil spirit. "I am not that kind of man, Signora, and I resent such an implication! The door was open when I arrived: I was drawn by the stories of my sister and could not help but wonder why a junior chorus member would require something as grand as that mirror."

"Does it matter? As far as I know it has always been there; a whim of the designer, perhaps." Antoinette tried to surreptitiously peer behind him to see if the mirror had been tampered with. Carlotta had not known about the tunnel that lay behind it, so why would her brother be creeping around nearby?

"I have to say that I find it ludicrous that chorus girl has something the Prima Donna does not," Rossi said, bristling. "I have seen the diva's quarters and I find them sadly lacking."

"Mademoiselle Merriman has not complained. Perhaps you should do so on her behalf, Signor, if you feel she is not getting the recognition she deserves," Madame Giry suggested.

The tenor stared at her for a long moment, lips pursed. When she did not even so much as blink under his scrutiny he waved a finger under her nose. "I am watching you, Signora," he declared. "Carlotta was very vocal upon the subject of your collusion with this 'Phantom', telling me how you delivered his outrageous demands. The managers may not bother themselves with such concerns, but I have my eye on you. Do not think you will get away with such flagrantly illegal behaviour!"

"The Phantom, such as he was, did this theatre a great service. It was unfortunate that neither your sister nor the managers at the time could see it; they preferred instead to hound him out and almost bring the Opera to ruin. But I would not suggest that you begin to spread such rumours, Signor; a line has been drawn under that whole episode and we are all anxious to begin anew. There is little to be gained in dragging up the past," Antoinette said. "It is the intention of everyone here to make the Populaire great again; I am sure that you wish to be included in whatever acclaim we manage to earn."

Rossi seemed momentarily lost for words. His mouth worked up and down once or twice before he shook that finger in her face again and repeated, "I am watching you, Signora. Do not forget it!" before stalking past her and disappearing around the corner. Antoinette counted slowly to a hundred before closing the dressing room door behind her and quickly approaching the mirror. To all outward appearances it remained untouched, but she had no way of telling how long Rossi had been there, or even how he had come to gain entry to the room in the first place. She decided to have a word with the cleaning staff; later she would need to have a very serious conversation with Erik about the future security of his subterranean home.

* * *

Bonner was looking typically disapproving when Madame Giry arrived at the Rue St Denis after rehearsal. Theodora had asked Christine to the Cafe de l'Opera for a bite to eat and after some persuading the younger woman had agreed to go. Antoinette was glad, for Christine had been looking wan and exhausted after so many days spent sitting at Erik's bedside; now that he was on the mend it was high time she had a little fun, and Meg had joined them eagerly when the invitation was extended to include her.

The butler cast a pointed glance up the stairs as he took Antoinette's shawl and gloves, and she soon understood why when the sound of male laughter came tumbling down the landing as she reached the top step. It took a moment for her to recognise the more high-pitched chortlings as belonging to Erik and she found herself temporarily astonished, stopped in her tracks. She had never heard him sound so unguarded, not even with Christine, and wondered what on earth was going on; Doctor Lambert had said only yesterday that the pain medication could be reduced if Erik felt that he could do without it and his patient had been only too glad to agree. Antoinette could not see him taking enough to produce the kind of hilarity to which she was currently listening.

Striding up to the bedroom door she rapped on it twice and entered without waiting for an invitation to find the Phantom reclining on the bed in his dressing gown, his face bare much to her amazement, James Patterson-Smythe comfortably settled in the armchair at his side. Both were rather flushed and holding glasses of deep amber liquid; a bottle that was more than three-quarters empty stood on the bedside table next to Erik's mask. As neither appeared to have noticed her arrival, she loudly cleared her throat, wishing she had brought her cane. After a long pause the two men swivelled their heads almost in unison in her direction and blinked owlishly at her.

"Devil take it, is there no privacy in this house?" Erik demanded. "This room is worse than the Gare de Nord!"

Patterson-Smythe giggled. "Did you order a ballet mistress, Erik?" he enquired unsteadily.

"I did not, James." Erik's voice was as commanding as ever but the effect was rather spoiled by the way his words slurred into one another. "Can we assist you in some way, Madame?"

Antoinette resisted the urge to put her hands on her hips and reprimand them like recalcitrant ballet rats. "I would like a word with you, Erik. In private, if you please."

Erik's mouth twitched in annoyance, but James shook his head, getting clumsily to his feet. "Worry not, my friend, I shall remove myself. Your servant, Madame." He gave Antoinette an extravagant bow and staggered off towards the door, taking his brandy glass with him. When he had departed, the door banging noisily shut behind him, Erik leaned over to the bottle with the evident intention of refilling his glass; before his fingers could do more than brush the surface Madame Giry snatched it up and held it well out of his reach. It was a Courvoisier, and ridiculously expensive; she wondered where it had come from.

"You try my patience, Annie," Erik growled, unable to stretch any further because of his bruised ribs.

"And you have had quite enough," she snapped back. "Erik Claudin, you are _drunk_!"

"Am I?" Mood changing in a flash he chuckled, observing the dregs that remained in his crystal snifter. "I suppose I am, at that. I don't think I have ever been drunk before."

"You picked a fine time to start," Antoinette told him, leaning over to pull the bell rope that hung next to the headboard. When Chloe appeared she sent the maid off for some strong black coffee and sat down in the chair Patterson-Smythe had vacated. "How _could_ you, Erik? And with... we hardly know that man! How could you let your guard down like this?"

He glared at her, putting the glass down on the bedside table and sinking back against the pillows, arms folded like a petulant child. "I will thank you not to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Madame! Perhaps, just for once, Erik got sick and tired of having to hide behind his protective walls!" A sigh escaped him. "Perhaps he just wanted a friend..."

"You have friends, and ones who know better than to allow you to pour half a bottle of cognac down your throat!" she exclaimed. "I am disappointed in you; I have never known you to be so irresponsible before. Have you lost all your caution? You could have told him anything - "

At those words Erik sobered almost immediately. "You are not my mother, Annie, and whether I behave responsibly or not is my own affair. Despite what you may believe, I have not completely lost my faculties; I would never allow myself to become so intoxicated that I revealed my most closely-guarded secrets to a new acquaintance," he said coldly. "I had thought you knew me better than that."

Madame Giry huffed. "What am I supposed to think when I arrive to find you stinking of alcohol and giggling like a schoolgirl? Too many men have met their downfall in their cups."

"I can assure you, my self-appointed conscience, that I do not intend to be one of them."

There was a discreet tap at the door and Antoinette opened it to admit Chloe bearing a tray with a china coffee pot and saucer, Bruno trotting at her heels. The maid hurried across the room and set down the tray on the bedside table; though Erik turned his head away to hide his distortion and thanked her civilly she still jumped like a startled rabbit at the sound of his voice and backed away looking almost flustered. Erik's presence had no such effect upon the spaniel, who jumped onto the ottoman and then the bed, curling up at his master's side and growling with obvious pleasure when Erik's long fingers began to almost unconsciously scratch him behind the ears. Madame Giry had wanted to shut the dog out of the sickroom after the attack but Christine pleaded with her to allow him to stay and as Bruno's whining and pawing at the door became unbearable after a few hours she had capitulated and Bruno was given leave to remain. It seemed that, whatever his attitude had been to the spaniel before the assault, Erik had become quite used to Bruno's presence during his convalescence.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" he asked when she had poured a cup of coffee and he had accepted it with typical bad grace.

Antoinette took a cup for herself and grimaced as she sipped at the bitter taste. Erik was giving her one of his piercing stares, more effective now that the swelling around his right eye had almost gone, so she told him what she had seen earlier in Christine's room. "It's not safe for you at the Opera, not any longer. The mirror didn't look as though it had been compromised, but I know very little of such things and I'm not sure I would be able to tell if it had. That man is always creeping about and being found where he should not be; goodness knows what Carlotta told him but it was obviously enough to make him suspicious. Perhaps one day he will find one of your entrances and stumble into the cellars!"

"One of my little welcoming devices would stop him in his tracks before he could get far."

"We have had enough of dead stagehands and disappearing tenors, Erik," Madame said seriously. "A line needs to be drawn under the Phantom once and for all; you need a proper home, somewhere fitting for Christine to live when you marry. Or had you intended to continue lurking about in the cellars after you are wed?"

"That is none of your concern." His voice was clipped, a clear indication to her to go no further down that road, but as usual she ignored it.

"The house on the lake is no longer secure. Eventually someone is going to notice that you never enter the building through the front door and ask themselves why. If nothing else, deactivate the mirror and tell Christine not to use it any longer. Please, Erik," Antoinette added. She rarely begged him for anything, but this was of paramount importance; sooner or later he would have to choose between the two worlds in which he was currently living. "Do it for Christine's sake, if nothing else."

Erik gave her a baleful look, but said, "Oh, very well. I shall deal with it tomorrow; I was intending to return home in any case and it will be easier to work when the theatre is closed."

"Home?" Antoinette looked him over. The bandages that had swathed his head for nearly a fortnight had been reduced to just a piece of gauze over the healing cut on his forehead; Doctor Lambert, impressed with Erik's progress, removed the stitches that were holding the gash at the base of his skull closed two days before, a process that Erik had borne without complaint. The concussion he suffered from the blow to the head manifested itself in severe headaches which he tried to hide as best he could, though these were apparently becoming less frequent. His ribs were still bound for support, but though he was moving more easily and his breathing was freer it was quite obvious that he was still weak and would need to take things easy for a while. "Erik, how do you think you are going to be able to make up it up and down five flights of stairs in your condition? You can barely walk to the end of the landing and back!"

"I believe I am the best judge of that, Madame," he told her imperiously, and then sighed. "I have people depending on me; I _must_ be back at work on Monday."

Antoinette laid a hand on his arm. "No one thinks badly of you for this," she said gently. "It is hardly your fault that you were attacked."

"In some ways it is," Erik replied, glancing up to meet her surprised gaze. He flicked an eyebrow and then winced as it tugged on the still-tender skin of his forehead. "Surely Christine must have told you who it was that assaulted me?"

"She mentioned... something. But whatever happened all those years ago you did not deserve to be beaten half to death for it!"

"Those responsible would not agree with you," he said with a bitter laugh. "They follow the old commandment of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth..."

"You can't go back to the cellars," Madame Giry told him, sensing that there was no point in arguing. "Come and stay with Meg and I for a few weeks; there is always room for you."

"And tackle the four flights of stairs to your flat instead? Thank you, Annie, but I doubt that would solve anything." Erik patted her hand. "I will take my chances at home; at least there I won't be turning Meg from her own bed."

"It would mean that you will not run the gauntlet of being observed as you come and go from the tunnels," she insisted. "You are not able to move as quickly as usual and someone might see you emerging from one of your hidden doors. With Rossi snooping around surely it makes sense to be as far away as possible?"

He said nothing, staring at the opposite wall and stroking Bruno, fingers moving almost automatically through the dog's glossy coat. Antoinette finished her by now cooling coffee, wishing that she had thought to ask Chloe to bring some sugar and cream, as well as a few biscuits; she had not eaten since the lunch break, several hours ago now. Such concerns would never bother Erik; despite her attempts, and now Christine's as well, he never did have much interest in food.

"Where are my things?" he asked eventually, making her jump. "My wallet and keys – who has them?"

"Here." Antoinette opened the drawer of the bedside table and withdrew the ring of keys, still attached to the watch chain upon which they were normally clipped to one of the buttons on his waistcoat, and put them in his hand. "Your wallet is there too; those men took nothing from you, not even ten francs."

She watched him sort through the keys until he found the one he was looking for. Separating it from the bunch he held it out to her; perplexed, she took it, and he drew a sheet of notepaper from the table towards him, picking up the fountain pen that also lay there and scribbling down an address. "I had not envisaged using it this soon, but I suppose it will do as well as anywhere," he said, folding the paper and passing that to her as well. "The place will need to be furnished; I leave that to you, I trust your taste and judgement. Money is no object, obviously, but it must be done as quickly as possible, and with the utmost discretion. I want no gossip, and there must not be one word breathed to anyone who might inform the press."

"Of course, but Erik- " she began, utterly confused; he cut across her, continuing,

"As you are of the opinion that I am too decrepit to venture back to my own home I will have to ask you and Meg to pack up some of my belongings and have them delivered to that address. Christine may help if she insists but do not let her use the mirror; enter via the Rue Scribe gate and only after dark, do you understand?"

"No! Erik, what in the world are you talking about?" Antoinette demanded, waving the paper. "Why am I to do all this? What is this place?"

He looked surprised. "A sanctuary," he replied. "You were advocating something of the kind yourself only a few minutes ago, were you not? I had already secured the property with the intention of showing it to Christine and seeking her opinion as to whether she could be happy there but events have evidently overtaken me." When she stared at him he rolled his eyes and made an impatient grunt. "I am taking your advice, Annie! On your insistence the Phantom is moving house."


	47. The Wanderer Returns

**Author's Note:**

Once again, thank you all so very much for your wonderful reviews. I really do appreciate each and every one.

* * *

**THE WANDERER RETURNS**

"That's an awful lot of luggage you've got there, Monsieur. Are you sure you don't need any help with it?"

"We'll be fine, Georges," Theodora said before either Erik or Christine could open their mouths. She beckoned to little Henri, who had been riding on the running board of the brougham during the journey from the Rue St Denis. "Henri will give us a hand, and there are plenty of big strong men lurking about in the corners of the theatre. Is that everything?"

"I think so," Christine replied, reluctantly allowing Erik to hand her out of the carriage; he was still suffering with his ribs and she knew it should be her giving him assistance rather than the other way round but he was stubborn and a stickler for courtesy. Once on the pavement she surveyed the jumble of boxes and bags that sat outside the stage door, in the midst of which stood the Prima Donna, hands on hips. Teddy had insisted upon their using her brougham and on squeezing in with them to take Erik's possessions back to the Opera; of course, she had no idea that the journey was more for appearances than anything else, to deflect attention away from the underground house. Over the past few days Meg, Christine and Madame Giry had gradually moved most of Erik's portable belongings up the many flights of stairs and into the Girys' flat; it had been slow going and Christine was reluctant to leave so many of the things she had gradually come to love behind to collect dust in the cellars, but eventually they had all of the items he requested packed and ready to be taken to his new home. Christine had yet to see it and she knew that he couldn't wait to show her the building in which they would begin their married life, refusing with a gleam in his eye to answer any questions on the subject.

Georges looked unconvinced that the small and wiry tiger, who usually sat up behind Monsieur Patterson-Smythe when he drove himself around town, could manage to lift the heavy boxes, let alone carry them, but when he started to protest Erik shook his head slightly and reached up with a wince that he almost managed to conceal to put a coin into the coachman's hand. "We will manage, Georges, but thank you." A meaningful look passed between them and Christine knew that Erik's gratitude encompassed more than just a drive to the theatre.

With a blink of surprise Georges stared at the coin. He touched his hat, smiling broadly, and said, "Well, bless you for a gent, Monsieur! It's been a pleasure to assist, truly it has."

"We'd better get these inside," Christine remarked when the brougham had driven away and they were left surrounded by Erik's things.

"Indeed. I'm sure that before too long we will attract attention for all the wrong reasons," he agreed, and bent to pick up the case that stood nearest to him, the one that Madame Giry had packed so tightly with books that it had taken all three of them to lift it. Before he could do more than grasp the handle Theodora swooped down, batting his hands away.

"Oh, no you don't, mister!" she exclaimed. "I haven't watched you spend the last three weeks recuperating just to let you undo all the work we've done! You, sir, are to touch nothing: Christine and I will do it."

"I am not allowing two women to do something of which I am more than capable!" Erik countered, bending down again and trying to hide the hiss of pain that escaped him.

Teddy just looked at him, a smile of triumph turning up her lips. "Oh, are you?" she asked. "Your ribs are saying otherwise!"

He shot her a glare from beneath the brim of his hat. "I refuse to let the two of you carry all of this," he replied sulkily, his left arm pressed to his torso in a protective gesture that had become almost unconscious since he was allowed out of bed. "What will people say?"

"They will say nothing, because I am going to fetch some of our strong and muscular stage hands to do it. At this time of the morning they could use some exercise," Teddy announced, turning on her heel and striding into the theatre, skirts sweeping elegantly behind her. Christine and Erik watched her, bemused.

"She is right, you know," Christine said after a few moments. "If you go straining yourself you'll just make things worse. Doctor Lambert said - "

Erik touched a finger to her lips. "I am well aware of what Doctor Lambert said, thank you. That fellow is a nuisance, and an old woman."

"Maybe so, but he does have a point. You suffered some nasty injuries, and you need to rest. I don't know what I would do if you - " she began, but he silenced her once more with a gentle pressure.

"Christine, I am only going to lead a rehearsal, not run a marathon. I will sit at the piano, and if you insist I will do no more than play a few notes, but I need to be here. We have got too far behind as it is."

"All right," she agreed reluctantly and he smiled. "But I will be watching you all the time and if you look as though it is getting too much I will make sure that you let Monsieur Reyer take over."

He rolled his eyes. "Very well, if you insist, my little tyrant."

As was usual for him, Erik had listened to the doctor's advice and then promptly ignored it. Had it not been for the fact that he was too weak to put into action his initial plan to return to work the previous Monday he would have been directing the rehearsals for _Die Fledermaus_ for a week already. Fortunately his body disagreed with his protestations that he was well enough to leave Theodora's house; when he attempted to get dressed and leave his room the efforts exhausted him so much that he collapsed into the arms of James Patterson-Smythe, who had just arrived with the newspaper and a bundle of letters sent by Madame Giry. Frustrated and angry at his own frailty, it was all that they could do to get Erik back into bed; it took three of them with the assistance of Doctor Lambert and he fought all the way with his scant strength. It was only when the doctor told him in no uncertain terms that exacerbating the injury to his ribs could result in grave consequences with regards to his singing or playing an instrument that he subsided. Martha Speedwell, ever the voice of doom, had muttered that maybe he would be better off in a convalescent home somewhere outside the city or, her words implied, an asylum, a comment which earned her an outraged tirade from Theodora that apparently included some choice words Christine was glad she didn't understand. Erik, having overheard, shot Martha a wolfish smile, teeth bared and face unmasked, which sent the woman scuttling from the room as though she feared he was about to eat her like Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother.

A few days later he was, thankfully, looking much better for his enforced rest. Madame Giry was grateful for the delay as well, as she had been given the task of furnishing the house that he had bought, a commission about which she was far from happy, added as it was to her daily activities of running her own household and keeping a string of ballerinas in line as well as the arduous job of removing the Phantom's possessions from the fifth cellar. In the end, bored and annoyed at more time spent in bed, Erik had requested that Monsieur Patterson-Smythe procure him brochures and price lists from the establishments he intended to patronise and spent his days choosing furnishings and fixtures so that in the end Madame had only to do the actual ordering and organise delivery. The extra time was a relief all round.

"So," Christine said, slipping her arm through Erik's and looking up into the face that was once more half-hidden behind its mask, "When will I get to see this new home of ours?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know... this evening, perhaps?"

She gave an involuntary squeal. "Do you mean it?"

"Of course." Something very close to a grin was twisting the side of his mouth that she could see. "I can hardly keep it a secret any longer, can I? And Bruno will need to be settled - "

"I thought that you wanted me to find someone else to take him," Christine reminded him slyly. "In fact, I distinctly recall you making me swear to have him out of your home by the end of that first week. Perhaps my memory is at fault, but I'm sure you said - "

Erik cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well, circumstances have changed. The house by the lake was no place for a dog."

"Admit it, you have become fond of him," she said, laughing. "He's certainly fond of you."

His smile became rueful. "Maybe I have," he admitted.

"I knew you would. You were just being an old curmudgeon."

"I am _not_ a curmudgeon!" he exclaimed, scandalised. "And I'm not that old, either!"

Christine just giggled. "Is Teddy coming back, do you think?"

Erik opened his mouth, but it was the voice of Jacques that emerged. "What the devil are you doing this time, girly?" the old porter demanded. They both turned to see that he had emerged from the stage door and stood staring at the pile of luggage, scratching his head.

"Oh, Jacques, would you help us?" Christine asked. "We need to get all of this down to my dressing room."

"Are yer moving in? Management won't like that."

She laughed. "No, not quite. These are Monsieur Claudin's things; now that he's here permanently he had them sent down a few days ago but Madame Giry doesn't have space. We thought we'd store them here until his new house is ready."

"A place of yer own?" Jacques shot Erik a pointed glance. "They must be payin' you a bigger salary than any of the other voice men got."

"Not really." Erik smiled slightly. "It's a very small house."

* * *

Theodora returned a few moments later with two of the scenery-shifters in tow. As she bustled about warning them to be careful Christine found it hard to contain her amusement at the sight of the tiny well-dressed woman giving orders to a couple of hulking grease- and paint-stained stage hands, both of whom looked quite capable of picking her up and stowing her away in one of the larger boxes. The elder of the two, René, caught Christine's eye and raised his eyebrows at Teddy's superfluous instructions before hoisting the heavy case Erik had tried to lift onto one meaty shoulder and taking three carpet bags in his free hand.

Manoeuvring the bulky luggage through the labyrinthine passages of the backstage world proved tricky, especially when they met dancers and musicians coming the other way. Rumours had obviously been circulating about the nature and result of the attack upon Erik; Hortense and Giselle both shot him curious looks from beneath their lashes as they passed on their way to the ballet lounge, pointe shoes in hand, the latter risking a wide-eyed stare once out of his sight. Christine did not miss the slightly-too loud whisper Giselle directed at her friend before the pair of them disappeared round the corner: "He looks just the same! I thought you said he was definitely a monster now?" She hoped that Erik hadn't heard it, but the tightening of his grip on the hat he held in one hand told her that his keen hearing had picked up every word.

"My dear fellow, you're back! I am so pleased to see you!"

Erik and Christine both turned at the sound of Monsieur Reyer's voice; the musical director had emerged from his office and was approaching with arms outstretched, a beaming smile illuminating a face that Christine was more used to seeing crumpled in a frown induced by too many long and fraught rehearsals. He took Erik's hand, shaking it vigorously, and to her surprise Erik made no attempt to pull away, the expression on the visible side of his face one of genuine pleasure at the sight of his colleague.

"Eugène," he said. "Thank you for the pastries you sent; it was a kind thought, and they were much appreciated."

"Henriette made them; she will be so pleased to hear that you approve of her efforts." Reyer looked the other man up and down. "I am glad to see that you appear to have suffered no lasting damage from such an appalling affair. To think that you had barely left my home when you were set upon... I feel in some way responsible, my friend, I really do. If only I had come with you - !"

"If you had there would have been two of us injured, possibly killed. None of it was your fault; I had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Reyer shook his head. "Still... that such a thing should happen! I do sometimes despair of the human race. Have they caught the miscreants yet?"

Erik grimaced, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Though he had eventually bowed to pressure from Teddy and James it was not until he was able to wear his mask again that he agreed to speak to the police about the attack. The young officer that was sent to the house made careful note of the deliberately sketchy account Erik gave and the witness statements from his two rescuers but admitted that after so many days it would be hard to find any leads worth following. "Due to the nature of my injuries I was unable to give any details for some time," Erik said now, spreading his hands apologetically when Reyer's brows rose in consternation. "The police have promised to do their best, but it is unlikely that the men who assaulted me will be found with any evidence at the scene long-since destroyed."

"Deplorable... and we pay our taxes for this!" Reyer's frown had returned, settling into its comfortable creases and folds. "I am of a mind to make a formal complaint, I really am. Where are the gendarmerie when you need them?"

"Erik, we had better make sure your things are put away carefully," Christine said before the musical director could launch into a tirade against the state of society, tugging gently on her fiancé's sleeve.

"Oh, yes, of course. I'll see you in the auditorium, Eugène," Erik told Reyer, who waved a hand in assent. By the time they caught up with Teddy and her helpers they were setting down the boxes and bags outside Christine's dressing room; she wondered why they had not yet taken the luggage in before remembering that she still had the key in her purse. Taking it out, she excused herself and squeezed past René to reach the door only to find that it was already open.

Theodora laid a hand on her arm and pointed through the doorway, arching one of her delicately-plucked brows. With a start, Christine realised that her room was occupied: Signor Rossi was there, standing before the mirror and running his fingers around the frame. In his reflection his face was set in determination; it seemed that he had not noticed the little crowd on the threshold behind him. Christine's heart leapt into her mouth and she turned to Erik, reaching for his hand. If Rossi found the switch that turned the mirror on its pivot and revealed the tunnel behind, the tunnel that led eventually to the lake and everything that lay concealed beyond it... Erik just put a finger to his lips with the tiniest shake of his head.

Teddy folded her arms and cocked her head to one side, watching Rossi with interest. "You know, Antonio, I though you gave all that up when half the corps de ballet complained about you trying on their tutus," she remarked, making him jump. He gave her a sour look.

"Ah, I wondered how long it would be before you started telling ridiculous tales," he said. "You have such a vivid imagination, _Teodora_."

"Well, what are you doing in Miss Daae's room?"

"A room that I locked when I left after Saturday's performance," Christine added. "How did you get in?"

Rossi ignored the question. "The game is up, Signorina," he told her with one of those nasty smiles he had bestowed upon her before. "I have discovered your little secret."

Christine clutched Erik's hand tightly. "What secret? You are being ridiculous, Signor!"

"Not ridiculous at all. You think I do not know how you managed to rise from the back of the chorus to take my sister's place?" Rossi stepped closer to her; she tried to move away but found her back colliding with someone behind. To her relief she realised it was Erik; his free hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

"Precisely what are you insinuating, Signor?" he enquired, his voice dangerously soft.

"I insinuate nothing; I know!" the tenor declared. "I know that the two of you conspired to get Carlotta out of the way so that you could manoeuvre into positions of power within this theatre. You wanted no one to know about your plans so you hatched them in secret, here in Signorina Daae's dressing room. Carlotta told me that she and other members of the cast heard a man's voice in this room but never saw him; you claim, Signor Claudin, to never have worked in the Opera before, but I know that you were visiting your protégé covertly."

"Really? Do tell me how, and please have the courtesy to back your accusations up with hard evidence," Erik said, his fingers tightening slightly on Christine's shoulder when she parted her lips to object.

"I have just found my evidence," Rossi retorted, returning to the mirror. His fingers ran along the side of the frame, right where the hidden switch was located, and Christine tried to stifle the cry of horror that welled up within her. "You have been using this mirror, and a passageway that runs behind it, to tutor this jumped-up chorus girl in secret!"

"Erik..." Christine whimpered, but he just squeezed her shoulder, holding her against him.

Theodora regarded Rossi wearily. "You really are pathetic, Antonio," she said with a sigh. "First those accusations against the new tenor in the chorus at Covent Garden that you thought was stealing your thunder and now this. Leave these poor people alone, for God's sake; they've done nothing to you!"

"They have insulted the honour of my family, made my sister's life a misery and probably ruined her career. I will see them exposed!" Rossi declared. With a flourish, he pressed the switch and the mirror began to move. As it slowly swung round, Rene gasped, Theodora stared and Christine was near to tears. Only Erik made no reaction as the entrance to his underground world was at last revealed to those on the surface.

It seemed to take an interminably long time for the mirror to pivot right round. Christine could no longer watch, seeing in her mind's eye the tunnel, down which she had travelled so many times into that realm of darkness and magic, defiled by Rossi's presence. No doubt he was exploring it already, snatching up the lantern and matches Erik kept there and heading down towards the still and silent lake. She felt like falling to her knees and sobbing for the loss of something so precious and wonderful.

"Christine." Her name was little more than a breath in her ear. "Christine, look." She shook her head, not wanting to open her eyes, but Erik was insistent, his fingers lightly touching her cheek. After a moment she allowed herself to lift one eyelid and peer at the wreckage of her dreams.

"Well," drawled Theodora, "that's certainly interesting."

"It's a trick. It must be a trick!" Rossi exclaimed, his face a picture of bewilderment as he beheld what lay behind the mirror. Christine could not really blame him: she felt just as confused herself, for there was a wall standing where the tunnel had been only days before. The tenor walked up to it, knocking upon the bricks, but there was no echo, no hollow tap that would signify plasterboard or wood from a piece of scenery. It was solid, a wall where, quite rightly, under normal circumstances a wall should be. "It is an illusion - "

"The only illusion is in your head," Teddy told him. "Secret tunnels behind mirrors... I've never heard such rot! You've been reading too many fairy stories!"

"It was here... I was _sure_ it was here..." Rossi looked at the mirror, and then back to the wall. "It makes no sense! Why would the mirror turn if all it conceals is bricks and mortar?"

"Who cares?" Exasperated, she stomped over and grabbed his arm, pulling him away. Perplexed, the tenor continued to mutter, offering no resistance as Theodora dragged him from the room. She offered a hurried apology to Erik and Christine as she pushed Rossi over the threshold; she could be heard berating him, switching from French to English to Italian and back again, her voice gradually fading as they rounded the corner.

Once they were gone, Erik signalled to René and his colleague to bring in the luggage and carefully closed the mirror. Christine could not relax until the stage hands had finished and been seen back to their usual work with fervent thanks and a couple of coins for their pains. Little Henri clutched his payment with a broad grin and ran off after his mistress. Once the door closed behind them Christine barely waited for her fiancé to turn round before crying,

"Oh, Erik, what has happened? The tunnel - "

"Shhh, my dear, everything is still as it was," he said quietly, enfolding her in his arms. He stiffened and held back a hiss of discomfort when she embraced him; realising that she was crushing his tender ribs she loosened her hold and he relaxed. "Nothing has changed, merely the perception of it."

"You came back." Christine pulled back and looked up at him; there was a smirk playing around his lips. "You sneaked out of Theodora's and you came back here. How did you do it? You could barely walk until a few days ago."

"I did it very slowly and with much fortitude," Erik replied, adding when she looked unconvinced, "Antoinette told me that Rossi was snooping around in here; I had to do something to stop him finding his way into my cellars and obviously I was just in time."

"But, the tunnel... how did you make it disappear like that?"

The smirk grew. "Now, Christine, you know that a good magician never reveals his secrets..."

"You are a very frustrating man sometimes," Christine told him, straightening the pearl-headed pin that was sitting at a crooked angle in his tie.

"I thought that was what you loved about me," he said, bending down to give her a swift kiss. "Man and mystery, remember?"

Recalling her first trip below, the seductive figure in black who had taken her through the mirror into his subterranean kingdom, across an impossible glass lake shrouded in mist, to a house that should never have existed but somehow did, she sighed. "I'm going to miss all of that," she confessed, her gaze meeting that of her reflection. "The magic, the excitement. The wonder..."

Erik's arm snaked about her shoulders and pulled her close again. He dropped another kiss into her curls, resting his unmasked cheek on the top of her head. "We'll make our own magic," he said.

"Do you mean that?" she asked, twisting around so that she could look into his eyes. They were soft, and so full of love that she believed him immediately.

"Of course. I'm not sure I can promise you our own private lake, but you and I have all the magic we need between us."

Christine smiled, and stood on tiptoe to press her lips against his. "Thank you."

Erik returned her smile with a genuine one of his own. "And now, it is high time we joined the rehearsal before either Reyer or Antoinette comes looking for us. May I escort you there, Mademoiselle?"

Laughing, she took his proffered hand, allowing him to lead her from the room. "You may, Monsieur, you may."


	48. A Phantom's Home

**Author's Note:**

I've never been to Paris, much as I'd like to, so the geography in this chapter is sketchy at best, based on the closest map to the time period I could find online (which was unfortunately the 1920s...). Neuilly-sur-Seine exists but its depiction here is conjured completely from my imagination.

* * *

**A PHANTOM'S HOME**

As the brougham moved away from the kerb Christine was fairly bouncing in her seat, her dark eyes shining with excitement. Erik couldn't help but smile at the sight; she could have been a child again, up early on Christmas morning and desperate to see the gifts left for her by Pére Noel. She clung onto his hand, squeezing it between her two damp palms, peering out of the window at the streets and houses they passed as though she had never seen Paris before. Enchanted, he couldn't help thinking that she had never looked lovelier, her face and curls burnished by the early evening sunlight; he realised that he wanted to see her like this always, thriving in the light, no matter how beautiful she had appeared in the glow of the candles in the darkness of his subterranean kingdom. Though he still found the world above ground objectionable and knew that whatever happened he would always be a natural creature of the night, Christine belonged amid the noise and bustle of everyday life, her open and friendly nature begging for interaction with the people around her. Erik would not stifle her by insisting that she remain down below in the stillness and the silence.

"I can't believe you actually bought a house and didn't tell me!" she exclaimed now, returning her attention to him as the driver took a left turn along the Boulevard de Courcelles. "How long have you been withholding information?"

"Only a few weeks. It was my intention to show the place to you once we began to plan the wedding," Erik said. "Unfortunately events rather overtook me."

"We're heading towards the Bois," Christine remarked, glancing out of the window again as they passed the Parc Monceau. "Is this house outside Paris?"

He nodded. "In Neuilly. I wanted somewhere secluded, and the suburbs seemed the best place. It was quite obvious from our short time at Antoinette's that people living in apartments have very little patience with those who are of a musical inclination."

"That is very true." She giggled, recalling the disgruntled neighbour of the Girys' and her broom. Then her mood changed abruptly as a thought occurred to her. "Is the house furnished?" she asked anxiously. "Will it need a lot of work? Do you have a bed – please tell me you have a bed, Erik, I cannot bear to think of you sleeping on the floor tonight."

"Hush, my dear, everything has been taken care of." He slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Anything that has been missed we will organise together; you are to be mistress of this house, after all, and you will have the final say over its decoration."

Christine was silent for a few minutes, content to lean her head upon his shoulder. "I've never had a house of my own," she said eventually. "When Papa and I were travelling it was always rented accommodation, often not very nice or shared with others because that was all we could afford. In the last few years we stayed in tiny little flats just like the one I have now, but no matter how long we spent there they never felt like home. Nowhere ever did, not until you shared your house by the lake with me. How I loved that house."

"I think you are going to miss it more than I will," Erik murmured.

"You know that I will follow you anywhere, but yes, I will miss it," Christine admitted, lifting her head to watch his reaction. She frowned slightly when she realised that his face was as expressionless as his mask. "I have never been anywhere like it; you created somewhere so intriguing, so beautiful... It was a mystery and I wanted to explore all of its secrets..." She trailed off. "It was never like that for you, was it?"

He sighed. "In truth, no, it was not. Originally it was no more than a bolt-hole, somewhere to lay my head after a long day on the construction site, but as I became more involved with the plans it grew as I added my own alterations to Garnier's design. He never knew how many additional corridors and secret rooms there actually were within the walls. In later years it became my prison."

Christine sat up again, interested eyes sparkling. "You still haven't told me how you came to be involved with the construction of the Opera."

"I suppose I haven't." Erik glanced out of the window; they were passing the church of St Ferdinand on the Avenue de Ternes. "In truth there is little to tell: Garnier and his colleagues were having trouble with the marshy land on which they intended to build. All experienced architects, they nevertheless had no idea what to do with the water they would have to pump away from the site or how to stop it returning. I solved that problem for them in exchange for a substantial fee and upon the condition that my name was not mentioned to anyone, and Lake Averne was born. It did not take long for Garnier to seek my assistance with other aspects of the plans, hence my opportunity to make a few subtle adjustments."

"But surely, the Opera was under construction when you were in the gypsy fair," she pointed out, frowning again. "How did you - "

"True, but it was a long, drawn-out business as such projects always are. I found the building works a useful place to hide at night, and it was while I was skulking around in the hope of obtaining work as a labourer that I heard of the difficulties. And of course the whole thing came to a halt during the Siege and the Commune; then no one was bothered about me and the underground realm I was quietly excavating, though I did have to be careful not to run into the Communards who had decided to use the place as a holding area for some of those who did not share their views." Erik shuddered. He had heard the cries of those being beaten and tortured in the cellars and was not now proud of the fact that he had shut his ears to the suffering of his fellow men, but back then none of those fellow men would have given a damn about a freak condemned to live in a hole in the ground so why should he have spared them a thought? "By the time the Populaire came to open in '74 I had a whole labyrinth at my disposal and no one else knew about it. Even the existence of the lake, which in fact balances out the weights for the scenery and stage mechanisms, was only a rumour, and it remains so to this day."

"Much to your advantage."

"Of course. I deliberately... dissuaded the curious from venturing too far into the cellars. Contrary to the tales spread by our friend the late Monsieur Buquet, the snares were only meant to deter, never to kill. Had he not been continually snooping around he would never have encountered them at all. After a while, when my movements about the building prompted some of the ballet rats at the time to begin bleating about a ghost, I started to cultivate the 'Phantom'," Erik said. "At first it was more for my own amusement than anything else, but around the time Antoinette and I met it was becoming clear that the management had no idea what they were doing and so, with her assistance, my role became a little more active than I initially intended."

"Just as well that it did," Christine mused, looking up at him and smiling. "Had you not felt the need to give the managers the benefit of your 'guidance', we might never have met."

"That is a situation it pains me to contemplate."

She snuggled against his shoulder. "Let's not, then. Let's think about the future instead."

* * *

The brougham came to a halt at the end of an elegant avenue. Though the houses were of modest size they were, to Erik's critical eye, well-designed and well-built with the aspiring bourgeoisie in mind; the rooms were of pleasing dimensions, the ceilings high but not _too_ high, and the windows generously proportioned to let in plenty of light. At the front were four steps up to the main door, a railed 'area' with staircase leading down to the kitchen and scullery allowing access for servants and tradesmen, while at the rear the lawn of a private garden swept down towards the Seine. As soon as Erik had seen the place, he knew that it was exactly what he had been looking for; though he had initially wanted to wait and show it to Christine, other interest made it imperative that he move quickly so as not to lose it and a (not inconsiderable) deposit had secured the house for them. It would have been almost impossible to find anywhere beyond a royal palace that was so completely different to his home below the Opera.

Christine's eyes were wide as he handed her out of the carriage and she ran her gaze over the building before her. Watching her reaction and waiting for her to speak, Erik almost found himself holding his breath, wondering what she was thinking. Was it too big, too expensive, too far out of Paris? Never having had one before, would she want to take on the added work of a garden, and would she miss the lights and liveliness of the city? Perhaps it was too close to the river, and she was worrying about the possibility of flooding if the level of the water rose... a thousand objections that had not sprung to mind until now began to make themselves known. About to promise that he would find somewhere else, somewhere more suited to their requirements, he opened his mouth only to be beaten to it by Christine, who turned to him with a beaming smile.

"Oh, Erik, it's _perfect_," she said breathlessly, moving towards the front steps and tugging on his hand. Stopping when he did not accompany her, she turned to face him, brow furrowed in a confused frown. "What's the matter? Can I not see inside?"

It took a moment for him to register exactly what she had said. "You like it?" he asked, feeling stupid. "You really like it? You're not just humouring me?"

Christine shook her head. "Oh, you silly, silly man. Of course I'm not humouring you." She stood on tiptoe so that she could kiss him; the cab driver cleared his throat and looked away, which made her blush and giggle. "It's beautiful," she told Erik seriously, pulling back so that she could look him in the eye. "Honestly. It's everything I've ever wanted."

Relief flooded through him, releasing the tension he had barely registered; Erik thought he might melt into a puddle on the pavement. "You have no idea how much that means to me."

Again she tugged on his hand, and this time he walked with her to the door. "Come on. Show me the rest of our home."

* * *

"This is a glorious room," Christine remarked, trailing her hand along the glossy, polished cherry-wood of the grand piano that dominated the space Erik mentally designated the 'music room' on his initial visit. The late afternoon sun streamed through the voile curtains that covered the large window, the view rolling down to the river beyond. So naturally that she apparently belonged there, Christine took up her usual position in the bend of the piano, resting her head on one hand and regarding her fiancé as he sat down on the stool, fingers wandering idly up and down the keys. "Think of the music we can create here!"

The piano had been ordered before beds or chairs, and it was a precision instrument as one would expect from Boisselot, Fils and Co. Erik had toyed with the idea of importing a Steinway from Germany, but eventually discarded the notion as extravagant. He teased out the opening bars of _Mein Herr Marquis_ from _Die Fledermaus_ and Christine lifted her voice for a few heavenly lines, the acoustics as perfect as he had imagined.

"It will be a beautiful replacement for your library under the theatre," she said. "I cannot wait to begin our lessons."

Erik closed the piano lid and got to his feet. "I regret that you will have to wait until we are married, my dear."

Christine's face fell. "But why? Circumstances have not changed - "

"Unfortunately, with a new location they have. I am sorry, Christine," he said quickly, hurrying to take her hands in his. "Even though we are we engaged, once I move in I still cannot risk your reputation by allowing you to come unaccompanied to my home. If we had a chaperone..."

"Madame Giry could come with me!" she cried, but Erik shook his head.

"Antoinette cannot be here for every lesson, and I do most certainly not intend to invite her to live with me. No," he added, when she began to protest, "I am adamant upon this point, much as I wish it could be otherwise."

"But my tuition! How will we - "

"We will use one of the practise rooms at the Opera. There are plenty to choose from, after all, and at last we are able to be open about my role as your tutor." Erik smiled. "I know it is not as... romantic, but it will only be until the wedding. After that we may do as we please."

Christine sighed. "How I hate social convention sometimes."

"As do I. But since you dragged me out of the cellars we have little choice but to abide by its dictates." She gave a very unladylike snort and Erik laughed. "Come along, my little rebel," he said, drawing her towards the door. "Do you want to see upstairs?"

* * *

Christine continued to 'ooh' and 'aah' over the rest of the house, dragging Erik from room to room, throwing open the windows, exclaiming in delight at the few items of furniture he had picked and bouncing lightly on the bed to test the mattress. Seeing her there in the master bedroom, as she discussed decoration and colour schemes, quite suddenly made him realise that this would be _their_ room, _their_ bed, in which they would sleep together once married. It was all he could do not to shake his head in disbelief and pinch himself, convinced he must be dreaming; the idea that someone else might actually want to share his bed, his life, was one which for so long had been so completely ludicrous that he found it difficult to countenance even now. Christine moved about, talking of rugs and curtains and "Oh, don't you think that pretty little what-not I saw the last time Meg and I went shopping would look perfect in that corner?", and Erik could do no more than watch her with what he was convinced must be a moonstruck expression on his face.

He barely even noticed that she had left the room until he heard her calling his name. Hurrying out onto the landing he discovered her in the small room at the back of the house, the one which at present remained unfurnished, waiting for its function to be decided. Christine was fairly glowing, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside.

"Whatever is the matter?" he asked anxiously, concerned that the heat of the July day might be having a delayed effect upon her. "Do you need a drink? A glass of water perhaps, or - "

She shook her head. "I'm fine, really."

"Then what - ?"

"Take a look at this room and tell me what you see," she said, adding when he raised a sceptical eyebrow, "Humour me. Please."

"Very well, if you insist." Erik sighed and made a show of looking carefully around him. "I can see a small, empty room which has plenty of air and light and a pleasing view."

"Is that all?" Christine asked.

He shrugged. "What more is there to say? I suppose it might make a nice little sewing room or studio if you were that way inclined, but as you are not - "

"Don't you think it would make a delightful nursery?" She rubbed his arm and he felt himself tense up all over. "We could paint it a soothing colour, and have the cradle by the window where the sun can warm it, and a rocking chair... Erik, are you all right?"

"I... did you just say 'nursery'?" His throat was tightening, too, and he felt the beginnings of panic; it was all he could do not to rip his arm from her grasp and run down the stairs as fast as he could. "As in a nursery... for children?"

Christine laughed lightly. "Well, I didn't mean we should use it for plants. Erik, what _is_ the matter?" She peered up at him, and he realised he was shaking. His head was spinning; he felt his vision start to go grey around the edges. "Are you ill? Do you want me to call the doctor? Maybe you did too much today, you should rest - "

Erik did his best to clear away the lump in his throat, but when he spoke his voice still emerged slightly strangled. "Christine, are you saying that you wish to have children... with _me_?"

"Of course! Who else would I want to have them with?" Her little hand pressed against the unmasked side of his forehead, her features creased in worry. "I think you need to sit down."

He didn't resist when she led him back downstairs and pushed him into the big wing-back armchair, so like the one in his house by the lake, which stood on one side of the empty fireplace, allowing her to fuss as the thought that had been consuming him since the word 'nursery' was mentioned whirled around his head. _Children_! His beautiful Christine wanted to have children! She actually wanted to bear the fruit of his tainted seed! With a groan he buried his face in his hands, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

"Oh, my poor darling," Christine murmured, stroking his shoulder. "I should never have let you return to work; it was obviously too much for you too soon."

"It's not that." Erik's voice was muffled by his hands so he removed them and continued, "Christine, did you really mean it?"

"Mean what? Erik, you're worrying me. I'm going to send the driver for Doctor Lambert." She stood up but he caught hold of her wrist. "Erik?"

"You said that you wanted to have..." He swallowed. "You said that you wanted to have children. With _me_."

"Well, yes. That's perfectly natural, isn't it, to want to start a family with my husband?" Christine asked, frowning at him.

"Natural? Yes, I suppose so. But what would you do if they looked..." Erik's fingers stole towards his mask, loosening the ties until it fell into his lap. He raised his head to look at her. "Would you still want them if they looked like this?"

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting when he turned his bare face to hers, whether he thought that she might suddenly deny the wish she had voiced only moments before, or that, despite the many times she had assured him that his appearance didn't matter, somewhere deep inside he was still waiting for the moment when she screamed and ran from him as she had done so many months ago, finally seeing him for what he was. But to his surprise Christine did none of those things. Her expression hardened, her mouth set in a determined line and she leaned in to kiss him on his malformed cheek.

"I will love them no matter what they look like," she said quietly, resting her smooth forehead against the twisted skin of his. "I will love them because they will be a product of our love for one another. We will cherish and protect them and they will grow up knowing that there is no reason to be scared or alone just because they might be different. We will care for them as my father cared for me and as your parents should have done for you. We will do all this because they will be ours, yours and mine, and because they will always have a maman and a papa who will show them that no matter what other people might see on the outside, they are the most beautiful creatures in the world."

"I never even thought... never even dreamed..." Erik whispered. "Even in my wildest moments I never imagined that anyone would want... that anyone would want to... with me..."

Christine smiled, and kissed the end of his nose. "Well, I'm here now and you don't have to dream any more."

"There are many times when I think I still am," he confessed.

"So do I. But we're not." She ran a gentle finger down the marred side of his face and, leaning over so far that she was almost sitting on his lap, kissed him properly with slow and tender sweetness. Erik tried to contain the moan that broke from him and his thoughts flew to the big, empty bed upstairs. It would be so easy to gather her up in his arms and carry her there, laying her down amidst the pristine sheets... Christine apparently divined the direction his mind had taken as she pulled away, shaking her head. "Not yet," she said, her voice huskier than normal, a pink tinge to her cheeks. "You are still not recovered, and there will be plenty of time for that once we are married."

"We could get married tomorrow," Erik said, startling himself as much as her with his impulsiveness. "I could get a special license; all we need is two witnesses and a registrar - "

Laughing, Christine silenced him with a finger to his lips. "And what would our friends think if we did?"

He shrugged, and said around her finger, "We would need Antoinette and Meg as witnesses. And you already have a dress - "

"Darling, I would indeed marry you tomorrow, or even tonight, if it were practical, but I have rehearsal and you have a new opera to direct. Besides, I have promised Meg that she can be my bridesmaid, and what do you think Teddy will say if we don't invite her?" Christine asked.

"Nothing if you don't tell her."

"Erik!" She swatted him on the arm and stood up. "I think it's time we stopped keeping that poor driver waiting and started unpacking your things. Theodora will be bringing Bruno soon; he will love having the run of that garden."

Erik got to his feet, picking up the shawl she had discarded on the sofa when they arrived and draping it around her shoulders. "If he ends up in the river I can assure you that I will not be the one fishing him out."

"And what if one of our children fell in? Would you fish _them_ out?" Christine enquired.

He pretended to ponder the question. With mock horror she pushed him out of the front door.


	49. Housewarming

**HOUSEWARMING**

"I would like to propose a toast," Theodora said, clapping her hands in an attempt to gain the attention of the little gathering in Erik's music room. They all stopped talking to look at the petite diva, who had climbed onto one of the chairs, the warm glow of the nearby gas lamp falling on her in a smaller scale imitation of one of the Opera spotlights. She raised her glass with a broad smile. "To Erik and Christine, their future home and happiness."

"To Erik and Christine!" chorused the company as one.

Christine blushed and Erik looked embarrassed, his visible cheek pink. He was still uncomfortable with a room full of people in such an intimate setting, she knew, even if those people were friends. For so many years he had had regular human contact with just her and Madame Giry; it was taking him some time to adjust to the novelty of actually having others who cared about him and wanted his company. When Christine suggested the little party to celebrate his new home he had immediately refused, claiming that he wanted no fuss; he had even been awkward and anxious to be rid of Teddy when she brought Bruno on the evening he moved in. The idea of letting someone else into his living space, running their eye over the items with which he chose to surround himself and curios he had collected during his difficult life, was almost akin to that of allowing a stranger to pry into his soul and just as abhorrent. In his view the house was for just the two of them, no one else; he wanted no one to spoil their intended idyll.

Thankfully, after several long conversations and considerable persuasion on Christine's part, he had backed down and given her permission to invite a select group back to Neuilly after the final performance of the week. Now that Erik was back at work Christine had returned to the role of Gilda; _Rigoletto_ was still playing to packed houses and was scheduled to run for another two weeks but the critics in the newspapers were wondering what the next production was to be and even the Marquis de Borges had expressed concern over its delay. The cast and crew were working flat out to have _Die Fledermaus_ ready to open and were all becoming so tired that at times there was confusion over which characters the leads were meant to be playing; on more than one occasion Christine had nearly found herself singing Adele's lines to Alphonse instead of Gilda's.

It was therefore with some relief that the invitations were accepted and it was a balmy evening when they gathered around the piano in the back room, the windows open to the garden and allowing the breeze from the river to offer some respite from the heat which had barely abated all day. Normally the season would be over by now but the managers were keen to capitalise upon the goodwill and anticipation gained from _Rigoletto_ and though many of the high-born patrons had decamped to their estates for the summer there were still plenty of those still in town who were keen to purchase a ticket and enjoy an evening at the Opera.

"So, have you picked a date yet or are we to continue in fervent anticipation of this wedding of yours?" Teddy asked now, stepping down delicately from her perch with the help of James Patterson-Smythe who offered her a gallant hand.

"Perhaps they're intending to make a break for it in the night and elope," Jimmy said with a wink.

Christine glanced at Erik and he flushed again, remembering his suggestion that they do something very similar a few days earlier. "We were thinking about the end of August," she said. "As the managers are pushing back the new season until the end of September we'll have a little time to spare and the Hôtel de Ville can fit us in for the civil ceremony then."

"An excellent idea," remarked Eugène Reyer from his seat in the corner next to Madame Giry. The two had been talking quietly and much to Christine and Meg's amusement the ballet mistress, encouraged by three glasses of champagne and the warmth of the evening, almost seemed to be flirting with him; for once she had even abandoned her habitual black in favour of a grey silk dress which, though plain and rather outmoded in style, coupled with a simple chignon in place of her usual severe plaits made her look much younger. "Will you be having a blessing afterwards?"

"We have yet to discuss the plans in that much detail," Erik said quickly, declining to elaborate upon the real reason a decision had not be reached, namely his reluctance to participate in any religious element of their nuptials. It was a sticking point between them, one that Christine would rather was not there; a civil ceremony only was legal in France, but she had been brought up to believe in God and could not bear the thought that she might not be married in His sight. Madame Giry had promised to speak to Erik on the subject, but deep down Christine knew his reasons for turning away from religion and it would be difficult to convince him that whatever he thought the Lord had not abandoned him.

Naturally oblivious to all of this, Reyer nodded. "Let me know when you do; I am good friends with the organist at the Madeleine."

"I'm not sure we could afford a blessing there," Christine told him reluctantly, knowing just how expensive a service at the fashionable church near the Opera would be. Even though Erik was hardly short of cash they could not be seen spending money as though it was water; questions would be asked and people would become suspicious, wondering exactly how a supposed struggling composer could afford such luxuries.

"Why? Did Erik spend all the money on the house?" Jimmy asked, eliciting a smattering of laughter. Taking a sip of the brandy he had chosen in place of champagne, he added as though he had just read Christine's mind, "If it's not rude of me to ask, where _did_ you find the money for this place? The Populaire may be prestigious but it doesn't exactly pay handsomely."

Erik exchanged a glance with Madame Giry. "Inheritance, James," he said smoothly, bringing out the story upon which they had all agreed, "And the little I have managed to put by over the years, plus the income from my music. The house is an investment for the future."

"I can't imagine that you earn much from Langé and St Just." Jimmy's eye lingered on the music resting on the piano; Erik had been working some more upon the ballet for _Die Fledermaus_ and the resultant sheets of manuscript paper were spread across the instrument's lid. Madame Giry kept complaining about the new additions to the score which meant more work for her and the corps de ballet but the perfectionist in him could not let it go until it was absolutely right in his eyes. "You really should let me represent you; I'm sure I could push them up another twenty percent."

"I doubt if the pieces they request from me would be worth the trouble." Erik grimaced. "Drawing room airs are the work of a few minutes and forgotten just as quickly."

"Well, if you decide to publish anything of greater scope, come to me. Teddy will tell you I'm not being immodest if I say that my business acumen has made her a rich woman over the years," Jimmy said, looking towards Theodora, who nodded. "You'll be needing the extra income if you've ploughed all your funds into this place, and I promise I won't charge you an extortionate commission fee. Well, not on the first transaction, at any rate."

Erik shook his head, chuckling. "I'll give you points for persistence, James."

"Couldn't have got where I am today without it, my friend," Patterson-Smythe told him with a cheeky grin.

"Christine and I are going to look at bridesmaids' dresses before rehearsal on Monday," Meg said eagerly, eyes shining. "I'm so looking forward to it; I've never been a bridesmaid before!"

"You were a flower girl when Madame Michon married," her mother reminded her. "Very pretty you looked, too. Everyone was very taken with you. I still have the wreath of violets you wore in your hair."

"Quite natural," Reyer agreed with a fond smile. "She was like a little angel. Only the wings were missing."

Meg screwed up her nose. "I don't even remember that."

"I was hoping that you might accompany us, Madame Giry," Christine said. "You are after all the closest I have to a mother and I would value your opinion."

The ballet mistress looked up, her mouth falling open in surprise at her former pupil's admission before she swiftly closed it again, struggling to keep her composure. "Christine, I... of course, if that is what you wish," she replied, her even tone belying the tear Christine could see forming at the corner of one eye. Surreptitiously she caught hold of Christine's hand and squeezed it.

"I hope you kept some money back from the house to buy a suitably extravagant dress, Maestro," Teddy remarked to Erik. "I'd be quite happy to take her to a few couturiers. That girl deserves spoiling."

"We aim to keep things as simple as possible." He drained the last of his champagne and put down the glass; Christine held his gaze as he glanced at her hesitantly. "And Christine already has a dress, should she still wish to wear it."

The Prima Donna raised an eyebrow. "Is there something more to this that enquiring minds might want to know?"

Christine laughed, privately thinking that even the most enquiring mind would be hard pressed to understand the mannequin Erik had made of her, perfectly sculpted to resemble her features and wearing a sumptuous wedding dress and veil that he had designed himself. Even now, though the dress was carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed away in a box at the back of her wardrobe, she had no idea what had happened to the doll and did not like to ask Erik. "I saw something I liked, that's all," she said with what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. "I have a very generous fiancé who bought it on the spot."

"You mean to say that he's _seen_ the dress?" Teddy asked, both eyebrows arching upwards this time. She shook her head and tutted. "That's horribly bad luck, sweetheart."

"Only, I believe, if I have actually seen her_ wearing_ it," Erik corrected. He smiled slightly but his tone was sharp. "That _is_ the custom, is it not?"

"Why don't you come shopping, too, Teddy?" Christine said quickly, keen to change the subject. "We can make a morning of it, have coffee... what do you think?"

"I'd love to, honey. Never need an excuse to spend some of my hard earned cash," Teddy replied cheerfully. "Even if you have a dress, I assume you'll still need a trousseau, and all the other little accoutrements?" Without waiting for Christine to reply she began to check items off on her fingers. "You'll want a going away outfit, naturally, and new nightdresses... Oh! I know where you can buy the most exquisite silk under things; they're not cheap, but it's worth paying that little bit more when you think of the rewards they'll reap on your wedding night..."

Christine felt her face become hot and she knew she had gone bright red at the mention of such things; behind her Erik noisily cleared his throat. "Would anyone like another drink?" he asked, voice slightly unsteady. The other men, evidently also embarrassed by Teddy's shameless discussion of the mysteries of a woman's wardrobe, hurriedly proffered their glasses. Theodora, entirely unrepentant, just grinned.

"I'm going to have to buy a spectacular hat," she said as the males of the party retreated to a safe distance and fell to examining Erik's collection of instruments. "If I remember rightly there's a fabulous milliner in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré; I'll take you there, Madame, and we can both choose something stunning. It's a shame we have rehearsal; we could have had dinner at Maxim's."

"Of course, my enormous salary will run to a hat from one of those boutiques," Madame Giry said dryly as Meg's eyes all but popped out on stalks at the suggestion of eating in such an exclusive restaurant. "I suppose having no food for six months will be worth it on the day."

Teddy clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I've done it again. Listen to me, running off at the mouth and making you feel inadequate! I really must learn to think before I speak."

"Please don't," Christine said, laughing; Madame Giry's mouth was twitching and she knew that the ballet mistress was not really offended. Impulsively she leaned down and gave Teddy a hug. "We love you just as you are."

Theodora patted her shoulder. "You're very sweet for saying so, and for trying to make me feel like less of an idiot."

"I am not averse to trying on a few hats while you choose your own," Madame Giry told her, and Teddy smiled, relieved. The Prima Donna leaned back in her chair, fanning herself with her hand.

"Could we do that, perhaps, sometime?" Meg asked after a pause, eyes still like saucers. "Go to Maxim's, I mean? I've walked past so many times and heard so much about it... do _royalty_ eat there?"

"When's your birthday, Meg? We'll go then," Teddy declared, much to Meg's delight.

"Next March," said Madame Giry, lifting an eyebrow. "That should give me enough time to save up for the starter and a glass of water."

Meg turned to her mother, face falling is disappointment. "Oh, Maman - !"

"Take no notice, Meg, it will be my special treat," Teddy declared, shooting Madame Giry a sly glance from beneath her lashes.

In return, the ballet mistress fixed her with a gimlet stare. "You are a terrible influence upon my daughter, Mademoiselle."

"You only live once," Theodora said with a shrug. "I aim to enjoy myself while I'm here. What else is money for but to have a good time?"

"Unfortunately some of us have to live within more slender means," Madame replied in a freezing tone which killed all possible response.

Silence fell over them, the conversation quite beyond rescue. A loud eruption of male laughter drew Christine's attention to the other side of the room, where Jimmy was slapping Erik on the back; the American's face was set in a wide smile and Reyer also looked pleased. Erik, recovering his poise with reassuring speed, reached up to the violin case that lay on a high shelf, withdrawing the precious Stradivarius that was one of his most prized possessions. Jimmy whistled as he regarded the expensive instrument; Reyer took it carefully, examining it with an expert eye, before handing it back to its owner, who touched its gleaming wood almost reverently. Erik's long white fingers plucked at the strings, testing whether the violin had fallen out of tune, and turned the keys, making minute adjustments. Apparently satisfied, he lifted it and set it beneath his chin; with his free hand he took up the bow, teasing out a few slow, beautiful notes. Seeing that Christine was watching, Jimmy rounded the piano and made her a low bow.

"Would you honour us with a song, fair Daae?" he asked, extending a hand. Behind him Reyer was taking a seat on the piano bench.

She glanced at Theodora, who was looking a little uncomfortable sitting so close to a disgruntled Madame Giry. "If Teddy will join me."

Relieved, Teddy eagerly bounced to her feet, sweeping across to stand in the bend of the grand piano that dominated the room. Beside her diminutive figure Christine felt like a giant despite not being overly tall herself; as Teddy leaned on the richly-pattered throw that covered the piano lid Christine drifted back towards the keyboard, hovering at Monsieur Reyer's elbow. The musical director beamed at the sight of her.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daae! You have been a most charming hostess this evening, most charming," he said brightly, and Christine found herself wondering exactly how much he had had to drink. "Erik has been kind enough to invite me to your wedding; I would be delighted to accept, absolutely delighted."

Christine could not help but smile back, and was glad he was in such an affable mood. She and Erik had discussed the guest list for the wedding proper, intending to keep it very select, inviting only those to whom they felt close. After the events of the past few weeks that circle had inevitably widened to include James and Theodora but it was still painfully small. Christine had no family living and Erik claimed none as his own; while it was natural that Meg would be her bridesmaid, Christine knew that she could hardly ask Madame Giry to give her away. It would be ludicrous to approach Raoul, even had he been in town, and the only other man with whom she had more than a passing friendship was Erik. To ask her fiancé to give her away to himself was the stuff of farce. They had gone round and round in circles until the perfect solution had come to her as an epiphany in the middle of the night, an idea she had taken to Erik the next morning and one of which he wholeheartedly approved. Hesitantly, as Reyer shuffled the music Erik handed him, Christine said,

"Monsieur, may I ask you something?"

Reyer looked up at her in surprise. "Of course, my dear Mademoiselle, of course."

"You have known me a long time, Monsieur; you may call me Christine," she told him, and, taking a deep breath, added, "I was wondering... well, Erik and I both were, actually... would you... could you perhaps... would you be willing to walk down the aisle with me, to give me away?"

"You... you wish me to take the place of your father?" he asked quietly, sharp little eyes fixed on her face as though searching for a sign that she might be joking.

Christine nodded. "I would be honoured if you would say yes."

"Honoured? My dear, dear Mademoiselle Christine, it is _I_ who will be honoured." Reyer's eyes watered and she thought for a moment that he was about to cry, but he recovered himself just in time. He took her hand, holding it between both of his. "Thank you," he said seriously. "It means so much that you have chosen me to perform so important a task."

"Thank you for agreeing," Christine replied. "I know that my father would be glad I have a friend such as yourself to give me away in his stead."

Reyer nodded, almost overcome once again. He patted her hand. "I met your father once, you know, when he came to the Populaire to give a recital. He was a true virtuoso and a most gentle, lyrical soul. It is a shame he is not here to see you wed." He blinked once or twice, and a moment later, straightening in his seat he became businesslike, back to the Reyer she knew. Withdrawing his hold after a brief encouraging squeeze of her fingers, he shuffled through the music before him. "Now, what do you wish to sing? Something from _Die Fledermaus_? _Hannibal_? _The Mikado_?"

A grin touched Christine's lips as she shook her head. Reyer had a love for the English comic operettas but she knew how Erik hated them, regarding the work of Messieurs Gilbert and Sullivan as ridiculous nonsense. "No, I think I have had enough of Adele for one week. Something simple... _Gentil Coquelicot._"

"That is a children's song," the musical director pointed out.

"But a pretty tune," she countered, and with a familiar huff that was known and feared by the company of the Opera Populaire he reluctantly agreed. Trying not to giggle, Christine all but skipped to Erik's side; standing on tiptoe she whispered in his ear, "Monsieur Reyer has agreed to give me away!"

A smile spread across his face. "And I have asked James if he will act as my best man."

"It's actually going to happen," Christine said breathlessly. "We're actually going to get married."

"Did you doubt it?" he asked, eyes dancing.

"Never. But now that other people are involved and we've decided on a date... it all seems so real. I'm scared," she confessed.

"I'm not," Erik told her. She stared at him in amazement, remembering their conversation of only days ago, and his reaction to the thought of having children. For several moments she had expected him to faint clean away, or have a heart attack on the spot.

"You're not?" she repeated incredulously.

"No." He paused, and confided with a worried expression, "I'm terrified. Can you not hear my knees knocking?"

"I wondered what that noise was." Christine muffled her giggles behind her hand.

"Excuse me, lovebirds," Teddy said loudly, interrupting. She looked at the two of them expectantly. "Are we singing tonight? We can all go home if you'd like a little privacy..."

With a cough, Erik turned away, raising the violin once more. Christine opened her mouth to remind him to be careful of his ribs but changed her mind when she saw how happy he looked to have the instrument in his hands. With a curtsey to Theodora, who returned it with a swish of her peach satin skirts, she rounded the piano and took her place by the Prima Donna's side. As she stood there, listening to Reyer's introduction, her gaze roamed around the room, falling in turn upon her companions. There was the musical director with his striped poplin waistcoat and perfectly-trimmed little moustache that bristled when he was angry; Jimmy leaning lazily against the bookshelves, brandy glass in hand; Madame Giry watching proceedings with her sharp eye for detail, her arm around Meg, who rested her head on her mother's shoulder like a child, tired after a long day of rehearsals; Teddy comically draping herself over the piano lid like a cabaret chanteuse; and last but not least there was Erik, trying not to smile at Teddy's antics or look at the way her corset was pushing her cleavage to the fore as she leaned towards him with a sultry pout.

Christine found herself smiling, her heart full. For the first time in many months she felt content. The two bar introduction came to an end and she lifted her voice. It was a simple song, little more than a nursery rhyme, but here and now it would do.

_I went down to my garden  
I went down to my garden  
To gather some rosemary..._


	50. Read All About It

**READ ALL ABOUT IT**

SPURNED LOVER BEHIND ATTACK ON POPULAIRE'S MAESTRO?

_Could La Daae's former fiancé, the Vicomte de Chagny, be the one responsible for the vicious attack upon Erik Claudin last month? While it is believed that the incident has been reported to the police, there appears to be no visible progress and the perpetrators have yet to be caught. The Vicomte has the men and the means at his disposal, and made much of his intentions to catch the fabled 'Phantom' and end his reign of terror over the Opera. Could it be that, failing to lay hands upon his rival for the fair Christine's hand as he originally intended, Monsieur de Chagny has resorted to stealth, sending his lackeys after the man she is to marry in a fit of jealousy? This correspondent would very much like to know the truth..._

"Oh, that man..!" Christine balled up the newspaper in her hands and flung it into the nearest litter bin. Sinking down onto a nearby bench, she brushed away the angry tears that sprang to her eyes at the sight of Béringer's latest pack of printed lies. It was bad enough that she and Erik had to endure the man's continued harassment without dragging Raoul into it; he had ceased to have anything to do with the affair the moment he left the house by the lake with the ring she had returned to him. And there, once again, was the name of the Phantom... she could not help but wonder if they would ever be free of Erik's alter ego, or if the rumours and gossip would haunt them forever. Were it not for his mask, she was sure that Béringer would never have latched onto him in such an insane fashion, but then again, her rational mind reasoned, were it not for the mask Erik would never have become the Phantom in the first place. It was all such a tangled mess...

"Mademoiselle Daae?"

She jumped at the sound of her name and turned to find a vaguely familiar face looking down at her with concern. Frowning at the pleasant, open features beneath a rather old-fashioned but well-cared for bowler, it took a few moments for her to recognise Didier Tolbert. Christine smiled, prompting the young journalist to do the same, and he raised his hat slightly.

"My apologies," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you, merely wished to enquire whether everything was all right. I had heard that Monsieur Claudin was back at the Opera; I do hope that nothing has happened to prompt a relapse."

Christine shook her head. "No, no, he is doing very well, thank you. I was just... that is, things would be much easier for both of us without..."

Tolbert followed her gaze and eyed the newspaper in the bin. "Ah, I see. Our old friend Béringer has been causing trouble again."

"I don't understand why he is plaguing us like this!" Christine exclaimed. "We have done nothing to him, nothing at all! I had never even met the man until he accosted me in a cafe one day."

"Unfortunately, slime like Béringer do not need an excuse. However, in this case I may be able to shed some light on the situation." With a sigh, Tolbert gestured to the space on the bench at Christine's side. "May I?"

Much as she wanted to know what had prompted Béringer's campaign of hatred towards her, Christine was not ignorant of the implications of being seen sitting and talking in public with a man who was not her fiancé. And Erik would be angry if he knew she had been consorting with journalists, however well-meant Tolbert's attentions might be. But if Tolbert knew of some way to bring Béringer's slanders to an end she would be silly not to listen to him... She opened her parasol, intending to rise. "I don't think it would be a good idea, Monsieur," she said carefully. "I know that your intentions are honourable but I do not wish to give more fuel to Monsieur Béringer's fire."

"Your discretion does you credit, Mademoiselle, but I can assure you that these calumnies will not go away," Tolbert told her gravely. "Béringer is like a dog with a bone; once he latches onto a story he will not let go until he gets what he wants."

"And what does he want?" Christine asked, unable to help herself.

"Recognition, by both editors and public. He wants his name known in every drawing room. Failing that, of course, there is always money; he has tried to blackmail several well-known figures into paying him vast sums to keep quiet about their peccadilloes."

"And did they? Pay him, I mean."

The reporter smiled slightly. "Thankfully, those he went after had tame lawyers to chase him off before any damage could be done. That is probably why he has turned his attention to less exalted circles."

"But why should he pick on me? I have no money," Christine said. "If he tries to extort money from me I have none to give; contrary to popular opinion, the stage does not pay well, Monsieur."

"Would you walk with me? I am sure there can be nothing objectionable in that." Tolbert gallantly extended a hand; despite her initial reluctance, there was something disarming about him that made Christine rest her fingers on his forearm, allowing him to help her to her feet. Once she was standing he withdrew to a respectable distance, clasping his hands behind his back; for a journalist, in Christine's experience his manners were impeccable. They strolled a little way down the path together before he continued, saying, "Though _you_ may not be an ideal target for blackmail, the Vicomte de Chagny _is_. His family is one of the wealthiest in France, and also one of the most upright. Oh, yes, Comte Philippe's long-standing liaison with La Sorelli is well-known but then every man is allowed his mistress in polite society as long as he is discreet. What they do not like is the idea of the heir to the throne, is it were, dragging the family name through the mud."

Christine remembered the awkward dinners under the eye of the Comte and Raoul's mother, a constant blush of embarrassment colouring her face as she struggled to remember which cutlery to use for the fish course, listening to conversation that went straight over her head as they talked of fine art and literature, speaking of friends and assemblies, of people whose names were foreign to her. She knew well that they barely tolerated her presence for Raoul's sake, doubtless hoping that his infatuation would be brief and he would settle down and marry someone suitable: a plain, dull girl whose heritage was flawless and whose ability to bear little de Chagnys unquestioned. There were curious looks thrown her way, giggles and mutterings from Victoire and Amelié, the sisters who regarded Christine as rather like an exotic plant or rare animal, someone who earned their own living through the talents they possessed quite the novelty; she had no doubt that they enjoyed the frisson of danger, of something forbidden, when they looked at her, a dancer from the Opera, from that mainly male preserve of loose morals and vice. Raoul had tried to make the days she spent among his family easier for her, assuring her that when they were married things would change, but though Christine wanted to believe him deep down she knew that even when the ring was on her finger and she bore the title of Vicomtess she would still be nothing more than that chorus girl, jumped up above her station. The whispers would follow them for the rest of their lives. "That is quite true," she said now. "And is that what prompts Béringer to say the things he does? He hopes to obtain money from Comte Philippe?"

"Not from the Comte; there are too many legal pitfalls. But from the _Vicomte_... I believe he regards Raoul de Chagny as a softer touch," Tolbert replied. "The Vicomte's _tendre_ for you is well-known, and if you were in danger of scandal, or worse... who knows how much he might pay to protect you?"

"I find that doubtful, now that I am engaged to another man." Especially when that man was the one she had run from into his arms, all but begging him to save her, Christine thought.

The reporter shrugged. "Old affections run deep."

"That may be true, Monsieur, but if Monsieur Béringer wishes to extract money in this way he would be better off applying to my fiancé, who has greater interest in my well-being than Monsieur de Chagny," she told him, adding as the thought struck her, "Unless of course he is already attempting such a course of action. All of these tales about the Phantom, connecting Monsieur Claudin's name with that of the Opera Ghost - "

"Béringer is obsessed with the legend of the Phantom," said Tolbert with a grimace. "He was there the night the chandelier fell, in the cheap seats; he says he saw someone in the dome, a shadow on the wall, just before the bolts sheared. Ever since that night his imagination has run riot and he has questioned anyone and everyone he thinks might have information about the Ghost, trying to force his theories upon those foolish or gullible enough to listen. He thinks unmasking the Phantom will make his name, you see. After the infamous 'disaster' he was most anxious to talk to you, as it appeared you knew more than anyone else, but you had disappeared, and when you returned all applications for interviews were rebuffed. Béringer is not a patient man, Mademoiselle, and he is quick to take offence. If he thinks you have slighted him, he is swift with his revenge and he holds grudges for a very long time."

"Mon Dieu." Christine stopped walking, staring at her companion with mounting horror. "Do you mean that he has been hounding me in this way just because he was denied the opportunity to speak with me after _Il Muto_?"

Tolbert nodded. "I do not make a habit of socialising with a man whom I regard as a deluded parasite, but I happened to be in a bar frequented by members of my profession one night when Béringer arrived cursing your name. I am sorry, Mademoiselle Daae, I wish I did not have to say such things but I believe you have the right to know the reason for your continued vilification at the hands of this blackguard."

"No, no, do not apologise. Thank you for telling me." Without even realising that she was moving, Christine found her feet carrying her towards the park gates, desperate now to share the knowledge with Erik. She was grateful that Tolbert made no move to follow her. "I am in your debt, Monsieur!"

The young journalist - he could not be many years older than she was, she thought, his round face was so smooth and hairless - raised his hat once more. "Should you wish to put the record straight, you know where to find me!" he called, and then he was out of sight behind the high wall and she was hailing a cab to take her back to the Opera.

* * *

"Not here? But he _must_ be here, there is a rehearsal this afternoon - "

Jacques shook his head. "Not any more. There was a dust-up of some sort, that Signor Rossi shoutin' at your masked man till he was blue in the face. Don't know what it was about but I could hear them all the way out here and I watched the Italian storm past with smoke comin' out of his ears." He turned a page of his pink sporting paper and licked the end of a pencil, noting down one of the runners at Maisons-Laffitte. "Caused such ructions that they cancelled the rest of the day's practise, for the singers at least. Reyer's up in the auditorium working with the violins and your man's gone home. Looked like he was going to explode when he left."

"Thank you, Jacques." Cursing inwardly Christine spun around, almost running the short distance back down the passage from the porter's box to the stage door and hoping that the cab would not yet have left. Reaching the exit she was just moments too late: the driver was pulling away from the kerb and did not respond to her shouts. Dropping the arm she had been waving to try and attract his attention she whispered with a vehemence that would have surprised all those who thought her a good, mild girl, a prude, even, "_Merde_."

"Christine Daae, wherever did you learn such an unladylike phrase?" a familiar voice asked behind her. "Anyone would think that you had fallen under a bad influence."

Startled for the second time that day, Christine whirled to face the person who had accosted her. Though she had not for a moment expected to see him, it was as though the old adage 'Speak of an angel and he shall appear' was true for the handsome figure of the Vicomte de Chagny stood there in the darkened the corridor, the summer sunlight that filtered through from outside glancing from his fair hair and giving it the appearance of spun gold. He was smiling, blue eyes dancing with amusement. Stupidly, she stared at him, mouth falling open in surprise. "Raoul!"

"The very same." He gave a little bow and then frowned. "Is everything all right? You look rather... flustered."

"I'm fine, really," Christine assured him, though her laugh was a little wobbly. "What are you doing here? I thought you would be in the middle of the ocean by now!"

"Oh, I will be soon. This is merely a flying visit to get my affairs in order, just in case..." Raoul trailed off but they both knew exactly what he meant. Naval service was not without its personal risks, even in a time of peace. "Philippe is to be married next month; had you heard?" he asked, changing the subject.

She nodded. "I read about it in the society pages. I hope he will be happy."

"That is unlikely, but I think they will tolerate each other." He pulled a face. "Once they have an heir and a spare he'll go back to Sorelli and the new Comtesse will probably welcome half of Paris to her bed. At least I'll be finally off the hook and allowed to do as I wish."

Christine blinked in surprise. "I thought that the affair with Sorelli was over? She was boasting just the other day about the Chevalier de Roscoff being her new protector."

"She loves him, and he loves her," Raoul replied with a shrug. "They may fight and take different partners but they'll always return to one another." He flushed, realising what he had said. "I'm sorry, Lotte, I'm forgetting myself. Too much time spent with sailors! I shouldn't be discussing this with you."

"Oh, Raoul, I'm not a child," she told him with a smile. "You are as bad as Erik! You don't have to protect my delicate ears from every piece of salacious gossip; I won't faint, I promise." He smiled back, relaxing slightly, so she added, "Now, tell me why you are really here."

"You don't believe that I popped in to see you?" he asked hopefully.

She shook her head. "You have that serious look in your eye."

"Oh, very well." Raoul sighed, his gaze roaming over the ceiling and through the open stage door before returning to her. The brim of his hat twirled restlessly between his fingers. As she watched him Christine realised that there were tiny little lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there before and his skin was lightly tanned; his new life aboard ship was changing him in subtle ways. "Philippe showed me this morning's _Figaro_," he said finally.

"Ah."

"Is that all you can say? This Béringer fellow is slandering both of us!"

"He has been slandering _me_ for months," Christine retorted. "Erik, too. We have had to endure a constant stream of lies and fabrications in the gutter press."

Raoul raised an eyebrow at the mention of Erik's name. "Facts do not count as slander, Christine," he said quietly.

"They do when they contradict the truth as we have allowed it to be known."

"I doubt if that would stand up in a court of law," Raoul told her, and she knew that he was right, no matter how much she was loath to admit it. "The point is that my family has now been drawn into this whole sordid mess and my brother is not happy about it. You must see why."

Something within Christine prickled at his tone; it was the one he used to use when he told her that the Phantom of the Opera did not exist. He tried to be reassuring but unfortunately, given his background, sometimes came over as commanding, which still rankled. She was sure that he had no idea he was doing it and so she tried her best to retain her temper. "Of course, we cannot have an _open_ scandal touching the de Chagny name," she said bitterly.

"There are appearances to think of, and a reputation to maintain, especially with the wedding so close - " he began, but she cut him off.

"You didn't think of any of that when you wanted to marry me!" she exclaimed. "Reputation could go hang, you said. True love conquers all! I had no idea you were such a hypocrite, Raoul."

"Christine!" Looking this way and that, Raoul caught hold of her arm and steered her into an empty office, closing the door behind him. Christine folded her arms, staring him down, until he spoke again. "Look, you must see that, until the wedding is over at least, I have to toe the line. If anything happens to spoil this alliance, not only will the pressure be back on me to provide the next generation of de Chagnys, but my life will be made a living hell. I've yet to be forgiven for the damage our relationship did to the family name, and no, I don't regret it for a moment because I did, and still do, love you," he added before she could open her mouth, "but my family don't see it that way and blame me for the reluctance of certain young ladies and their influential parents to want to associate themselves with us. The letter that came this afternoon hasn't helped matters."

"Letter? What letter?" Remembering Tolbert's description of Béringer as an attempted blackmailer made Christine's blood run cold.

"A letter from that damned journalist. The arrogant fellow believes himself to be doing me a favour by offering me the chance to have my name cleared of this attack upon your fiancé," Raoul said, scowling. "If I pay him ten thousand francs he will have a retraction printed, telling the world I had nothing to do with it!"

Christine's hand stole to her mouth. "So it _is_ true..."

Completely misunderstanding, unaware as he was of the greater picture, Raoul stared at her, eyes wide. He had paled beneath his tan. "Christine," he said desperately, "surely you don't believe I had anything to do with that? Please, Lotte, I swear on my father's grave I wish the Ph – I wish Erik no harm!"

"What? I – no, of course not! Raoul, how could you even think that I would - " Quickly she crossed the little room to reach up and kiss him on the cheek. "I know that you were nowhere near Paris when it happened, and so does Erik. You are an honourable man; you would never do such a thing!"

"Then why did you, just now - "

"I was told earlier that Béringer was a blackmailer but I did not want to believe it," Christine explained. Briefly she recounted the information given to her by Didier Tolbert; as she spoke, Raoul's mouth became a grim line and he took a tighter grip on the brim of his hat. "He wants to revenge himself upon me because of some imagined slight. And now, because his tales are not doing the kind of damage he wants, he has targeted you because you are the one with the money, and he will take the cash if that is all he can get. He obviously thinks that you would rather pay than risk your reputation."

With a short laugh Raoul shook his head. "I _can't_ pay," he said. "I haven't any more money than my brother gives me as an allowance, and he refuses to advance me one sou to give to that man. Philippe told me in no uncertain terms that I was to get rid of the fellow; he didn't care how but made it clear I was to do it with no assistance from him."

"Oh, Raoul. I'm so sorry," she told him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You should never have been dragged into this."

They stood there for some time, like two children drawing comfort from one another's presence. Raoul began tentatively to stroke her hair, but withdrew when she lifted her head to look at him. His eye fell to the diamond and ruby ring that sparkled on the third finger of her left hand as she straightened his collar; she wondered whether the chain around her neck, the chain from which she had hung the ring he had given her, had had the same effect upon Erik as the sight of her wearing the Phantom's mark evidently did on Raoul. It was as though she wore a collar, marking her as belonging to another man; he gently pulled away, taking her other hand in his. "What should we do?" he asked, and he sounded just as lost as she felt.

What was there to do? Christine's instinct had always been to consult her father, and in his absence, regardless of any friends or surrogate family she might have now, there had only been one other person she trusted enough to turn to in her hour of need: her Angel of Music, for so long her guide and guardian. Their dilemma concerned him too; what could be more natural than to consult the former Phantom, with his greater experience of the world and all its dark corners?

"We ask Erik," she said.


	51. Council of War

**Author's Note:**

Thank you all once again for your reviews, and congrats on reaching fifty chapters - I can't quite believe this story has made it that far!

Raoul was originally intended to just make a cameo, but he managed to write himself back in and has now upped it to 'special guest appearance'. :)

* * *

**COUNCIL OF WAR**

"When you said we would be visiting Erik, I expected to have to traverse those dreadful tunnels again," Raoul remarked as his driver guided them expertly through the city. "I had no idea he was actually living above ground, and working at the Opera..!"

Christine glanced out of the window, at the familiar landmarks passing by. "Things have changed, Raoul. Erik's talents are finally being recognised," she said proudly. "His compositions are being published, and people appreciate his genius; they want him to weave the same magic with the voices of the chorus as he did with mine. Theodora Merriman decided to join the company purely because of him; before she heard _Rigoletto_ she was going to return to America. She stayed because she couldn't let the opportunity to work with him pass her by."

"I'm impressed. Amazed, too," he confessed, shaking his head. "I'll admit it, Christine; if you had told me all this a few months ago I would never have believed it possible that the... _creature_ who terrified you, threatened us and held the entire Populaire in his thrall as though he really was some supernatural being, could have a home and a job and be going about his business like a normal, respectable man."

"He _is_ a normal man, Raoul; he always was, underneath. Acceptance was all he ever wanted, but it was the one thing his face denied him," Christine told him, her voice soft. "He didn't choose to be a monster; the world made him into one."

Raoul looked unconvinced and she sighed inwardly. He didn't know Erik and probably never would; all he would ever see was the Phantom and remember the deadly rivalry between them. Christine supposed she could not blame him, not really; it would be impossible to think well of someone who had wanted you dead, no matter what the circumstances. "It doesn't matter what I think." Raoul's gaze fell to her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, and the ring on her finger. "You're marrying him?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I'm sorry, Raoul."

"I suppose I should have expected it; you did return my ring, after all. But I still..." he trailed off, watching the houses flash by for what seemed like an interminably long time, before turning back to her and asking earnestly, "Do you love him? Truly?"

Christine thought her heart might break at the hope and affection she still saw shining in his eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I do. I love him with all my heart and soul."

"I see." Raoul's shoulders slumped slightly and he almost seemed to deflate. He sank back against the squabs, attention back on Paris as it passed. "When is the wedding to be?"

"The end of next month. We've only been engaged six weeks."

"Six weeks?" He laughed, but there was little humour there. "We were engaged six months and never set a date."

"Raoul, please don't do this," Christine begged, unable to bear the direction the conversation had taken. "I don't want there to be ill feeling between us. You are one of my best friends."

"Friends, yes." With a sigh he looked at her once more. There was a sad smile touching his lips. "It seems that's all we were ever destined to be."

After a moment's hesitation, she reached out and rested a hand on his knee; there was a pause, and then he covered her hand with his own. "Just because I love Erik, it doesn't mean that I don't still care for you," she said. "I was never Little Lotte to Erik; you knew me before he was even aware of my existence. You knew my father and we shared such wonderful times as children; nothing will ever take that away from us. We'll always have Perros, the sea and my red scarf."

Raoul squeezed her hand. "Thank you," he murmured, adding briskly before she could say any more, "Well, I suppose we had better enter the lion's den and see if your fiancé can extricate us from the mess into which we've been landed by his ghostly persona. Should I keep my hand at the level of my eyes?"

* * *

They could hear the music before they reached the house, wild and pounding, reminiscent of the darker parts of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

It was strange to be knocking on a smart dark green front door in a quiet neighbourhood, knowing that Erik was somewhere behind. Raoul told his driver to wait, but Christine suggested maybe he should not do so directly outside; if someone saw a carriage bearing the de Chagny crest standing at the kerb in front of this particular dwelling it would only add fuel to the rumours stirred up by Francois Béringer and that was the last thing they wanted. With a shrug he sent the man away with a request to return within the hour.

The first time she came to the house to visit him, Christine had almost expected to find the curtains pulled against the daylight, Erik hiding in the resultant shadows like one of Monsieur Stoker's vampires. It had been a surprise when he came to the door, ushering his guests inside with a graceful bow. Waiting for a break in the thundering of the piano she rapped the knocker twice, and after a pause an excited barking began within until Erik's voice cut across it, commanding Bruno to be quiet. Obediently the spaniel fell silent and Christine couldn't help but smile; it had not taken Bruno long to learn who was master.

The door opened and Erik peered warily round it, instinctively tilting his head so that his mask was not immediately visible. When he saw Christine he relaxed, only to tense up again the moment his gaze found Raoul standing behind her. "Christine," he said. "I thought I made it clear that you should only visit me here with a chaperone? Your - "

"I had little choice; you weren't at the theatre," she pointed out.

"Ah. You heard about the rehearsal, then."

She nodded. "Jacques told me. I thought you might have come and found me before rushing off like that."

"My apologies, my dear. I was unsure of your whereabouts and that Italian buffoon made me so angry I thought it best I get away; he was disputing every direction I gave and I could not be sure of my temper." Erik looked at Raoul and raised an eyebrow. "Monsieur le Vicomte. To what do I owe this honour?"

"Erik, may we come in?" Christine prompted gently when he made no move to allow them inside. "There is something very important that we need to discuss, and I think it safer if we do it somewhere more private than the doorstep."

He blinked, as though awakening from a trance, and stood aside to permit them to cross the threshold. "Of course, of course." Even had she not heard the evidence it was obvious he had been working, for his tie was loose and his jacket missing, the sleeves of his lawn shirt pushed up to the elbow; suddenly self-conscious of the old white scars that encircled his wrists, he unrolled them and hurriedly fastened his cufflinks. Glancing at Raoul, Christine saw that he was trying to hide his surprise at encountering an elegant, domesticated gentleman instead of the angry Phantom he had been expecting; Erik was wearing one of the lighter summer suits she had persuaded him to order, in a soft fawn shade that was a world away from his habitual black. "You must forgive me," Erik said awkwardly, "I was not expecting company."

"You have come up in the world, Monsieur... Claudin, is it?" Raoul remarked as Christine led the way to the parlour. "In more ways than one, it would seem."

Erik inclined his head, replying carefully, "I had thought you embarked upon your naval career by now. What brings you back to Paris?" _And Christine_, added the unspoken words that were audible to them all. Whether deliberately or unconsciously, they kept a wide stretch of floor between them, Raoul remaining by the door while Erik stood before the fireplace, surveying the room with hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"Family business," Raoul said, and Erik nodded. "I... Christine has told me of your..." He swallowed uncomfortably "... of your engagement. It seems congratulations are in order." For a long moment the two just looked at each other, and then, to Christine's delight, Raoul held out a hand. "I wish you both every happiness."

The only indication of Erik's surprise was a brief widening of the eyes; a facial flicker almost immediately controlled. He hesitated, regarding Raoul's hand as though he thought it might bite him, but then he reached out, accepting the gesture and returning it with a firm shake of his own. "Thank you," he said, the slight wobble in his voice betraying his emotions. Clearing his throat he added with the ghost of a smile, "I bid you welcome to my home, Monsieur. Please, do take a seat; there are no tricks or trapdoors here, I assure you. May I offer you some refreshment?"

"I'll make some tea," Christine said before Raoul could answer, releasing the breath she had not even realised she was holding. Satisfied that left alone they were not likely to come to blows, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove, straining her ears to try and catch some of their conversation. Bruno had been lying in his basket in the corner but was immediately alert upon seeing her, pawing at her skirts and begging for attention. He yapped excitedly as she petted him, tail wagging furiously. "Has he been neglecting you?" she asked, scratching the spaniel behind the ears. "I shall have to have words with him." Doubtless Bruno was the last thing on Erik's mind when he was caught up in a frenzied bout of composing.

The tea made, she took up the tray and returned to the sitting room, Bruno trotting at her heels. As she reached the door, however, she pulled up short, listening; Bruno sat down, looking up at her with a puzzled whine. Christine shook her head and touched a finger to her lips.

"...thank you," Erik was saying. "Had it not been for your intervention I would probably have bled to death beneath the Opera."

"You owe me nothing, Monsieur," Raoul replied stiffly. "It was after all upon my orders that you were shot in the first place."

There was a pause, and then Erik said, "Even so, I am grateful. I am not sure I would have been able to make the same gesture had our circumstances been reversed."

"That is the difference between us. I did it for Christine, Monsieur, not for you," Raoul admitted. "In the end, I could not bear to see her torn apart by your death."

There was the sound of leather creaking as Erik leaned back in his chair. "You know, Monsieur le Vicomte, perhaps we are not quite so different." Christine could picture Raoul's look of surprise, but he said nothing. Erik's next words were soft, so much so that she only just caught them. "We would both go through hellfire for her."

"You may be right," Raoul agreed. "And in that case, I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that if you do anything to make her miserable I _will_ hunt you down and kill you. Don't think that it is an idle threat, either; my skill with a pistol is much improved."

The Phantom chuckled. "Of course," he said, his tone serious despite his amusement. "I would expect nothing less."

* * *

"That man goes too far," Erik growled fifteen minutes later, when the tea had been poured and Christine and Raoul had told their respective stories. "It is high time he was stopped."

"I'm surprised you have allowed him to keep printing these lurid tales," said Raoul, accepting a biscuit from the plate proffered by Christine and balancing it carefully on his saucer. "One little tug on the Punjab lasso and this Béringer would have been out of your hair weeks ago."

Erik's eyebrow rose. "Contrary to popular opinion, I do not kill for sport, Monsieur, and I am not desirous of drawing attention to myself. Stringing the fool up on a lamppost is hardly subtle and smacks of the worst excesses of the Revolution, however satisfying it might be."

"Could we threaten him with legal action?" Christine asked, inwardly pleased despite the situation to see the two men in her life sitting together in the same room, apparently having agreed on a truce, albeit an uneasy one. "Teddy told me that James has a brace of tame lawyers we could consult."

Raoul looked confused at the mention of the diva and her manager, but Erik shook his head. "If we involve lawyers, too many awkward questions would be asked. We may be bending the truth somewhat from necessity, but I am not keen on the idea of lying under oath, which is what it would come to should we try a libel action."

"Lawyers are expensive," Raoul added gloomily. "I could never afford representation without Philippe's help."

"You surprise me," Erik remarked, setting down his teacup on the little table at his elbow and sitting back, crossing one long leg over the other. "I had thought your family one of the wealthiest in France."

"We are. It is my misfortune to be the younger son; my brother holds the purse strings and at present he has them in a death grip. After the debacle at the Opera he regards this as my mess and I must extricate myself alone."

"Then your patronage of the Populaire - "

"Was with Philippe's money, yes," Raoul said bitterly. "And what a waste it was. My entire family now thinks me a fool thanks to you, Monsieur Opera Ghost; I really must express my gratitude."

"Raoul - " Christine began in a warning tone as Erik straightened, strong white fingers curling around the arms of his chair.

"No one emerged from that affair with any glory, boy," he hissed. "If you imagine I congratulate myself for the things I did you are sadly mistaken. I am not proud of my behaviour, but at least I am able to admit I did wrong and try to make amends."

Raoul had picked up the biscuit; it snapped in half as his hand clenched into a fist, falling to the floor where Bruno immediately scooped it up. "Don't pretend that makes you somehow better than me! How much money did you extort from the managers over the years? Was this house paid for out of your ill-gotten gains?"

"Raoul!" Christine said sharply as Erik started forwards, mismatched eyes flashing dangerously, his fingers unconsciously searching for the absent lasso. They both turned to look at her and she sighed, reaching down a hand to stroke the spaniel, who licked her wrist. "We are _all_ in this mess and together we must find a way out. When it is over, you will never have to see each other again but until then can you not at least pretend to be civil, for my sake?"

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Raoul flushed to the roots of his hair and averted his gaze, suddenly finding his cup the most fascinating thing in the world. Erik got to his feet and leant against the mantelpiece, staring into the empty fireplace. Christine waited, offering Bruno another biscuit, which the little dog accepted with enthusiasm, the crunching noises he made breaking the heavy silence in the air. At length, Erik turned, shoulders tense but expression contrite.

"I apologise, Christine," he said, much to her relief. "I am behaving in a manner quite unfitting of a man of my age. If the Vicomte can do the same, I promise to restrain myself."

"Raoul?" Christine asked, looking at her old friend, and he nodded tersely. For a moment she felt as though she was dealing with a pair of children instead of two grown men. "Thank you. Now, what _are_ we to do about Monsieur Béringer?"

The ticking of the clock, that ormolu monstrosity from Erik's music room under the Opera, was so loud in the resulting quiet that she was sure she could actually feel it. Erik drummed his fingers on the mantel, the sound sharp and staccato; Christine knew without asking that his mind was working a mile a minute, a conclusion supported a few moments later when he began to pace, long fluid strides taking him to the window and back. Raoul sat on the edge of the sofa, back ramrod straight and fingers curled tightly around the handle of his cup; Christine was sure his tea must be cold by now. She lifted the pot, offering him a refill; he jumped and blinked at her for a moment before holding out his saucer, the porcelain rattling slightly as his hand shook.

"I'm sorry, Christine," he said quietly as she poured, casting Erik a sidelong glance. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come; I've no wish to bring down his anger upon you."

"You won't," she assured him. "He's not truly angry, just extremely vexed. Unfortunately it seems that the pair of you bring out the worst in one another. I should have realised that."

"Still, knowing what he's like... I'm not happy with the thought of leaving you here alone with him."

Christine sat back and settled her skirts, trying not to swamp Bruno with fabric as he lay down and rested his head heavily on her feet. "I've been alone with him many times before, and I'm still here to tell the tale. Erik would never hurt me; sometimes I think he would have been satisfied if I allowed him to carry my bags and help me on with my slippers. You needn't worry for me, Raoul; I made my choice and I stand by it. I've no regrets."

Raoul nodded, and turned his attention to the spaniel. An involuntary smile touched his lips. "You seem to be a favourite there," he remarked.

"Oh, this is Bruno," Christine said, giving the little dog a pat. "Erik and I adopted him... or rather he adopted Erik. It would appear that he resents being sidelined in favour of whatever it is his master has been working on, hence his preference for my company."

"I would not have imagined the Phantom with a dog."

"You never imagined him with a home and gainful employment, either," she countered, but before Raoul could respond the subject of their conversation lifted his chin from his chest and abandoned his perambulations.

"This journalist of yours, Christine," he said, coming to stand on the hearthrug. Bruno got up and started pawing at his trouser-leg; absently Erik bent down to scratch him under the chin. "Is he trustworthy, do you think?"

Christine frowned. "I hardly know him, but yes, he seems so. He did not have to tell me about Béringer but he did."

"What are you thinking?" asked Raoul. "How can another reporter help us?"

Erik ignored him. "You recall suggesting that we use the press to our advantage?"

"Yes, but that idea hardly turned out well," Christine pointed out. It had been their capitulation to the press men outside the Opera that ultimately led to his beating at the hands of the gypsies; had they continued to say nothing and disregarded the questions their likenesses would never have appeared in _La Monde_ and Grigore would not have been able to recognise Erik. Sitting at his bedside, eyes fixed on his battered face, she had cursed herself repeatedly for even making the suggestion. "Surely we don't want to make the same mistake?"

"I have an idea," Erik told her. "You urged me to then to tell the truth. What do you say to doing just that, and giving an interview to your Monsieur Tolbert?"

"You... Erik, how can we possibly tell him the truth?" she exclaimed, staring at him as though he had just informed her that he intended to run naked through the streets of Montmartre. "We will all be arrested! You might be - " She broke off, unable to bring herself to say 'executed'.

He shook his head, lifting a hand to stall her protests. "I have naturally considered that. However, I believe that there is much to be gained by yourself and the Vicomte telling your stories."

"If we do so, you will definitely have an appointment to keep with Madame Guillotine," muttered Raoul. When Erik glared at him he met the older man's gaze defiantly. "Have you forgotten Joseph Buquet?"

"Buquet did not die by my hand," Erik said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Typically, Raoul did not heed the warning. "Was it not your lasso they discovered wound around his neck when he plunged towards the stage and terrified those poor ballerinas?" he enquired.

"That does not mean I killed him. You would make a poor lawyer, de Chagny; a court needs a little thing called 'evidence' in order to prosecute," Erik informed him coldly. "The inquest gave a verdict of accidental death; Buquet had been drinking heavily all evening."

"You cannot prove that."

"Maybe not, but I have the evidence of my own eyes. I was up on the catwalks throughout the performance and I watched him; I could also smell alcohol on his breath when _he_ tried to attack _me_. And there was the post mortem: the pathologist's opinion of the man's liver made enlightening reading. But this is beside the point," Erik said, waving away his rival's objections. "Béringer is desperate to publish the truth about the Opera Ghost because he believes it will bring him the notoriety he craves; he has no intention of ceasing his 'investigations' until the whole story is revealed. But would his pretensions not be stopped in their tracks if a rival journalist was given unprecedented access to the key players in that very drama? Where would Béringer's ambitions be if the very scandal he wishes to uncover was already out in the open?"

"Are you suggesting we tell the man everything? That we expose you as the Phantom?" Raoul asked incredulously, eyes wide.

"I am suggesting that you tell the truth, albeit without mentioning the Phantom's identity. That there was a man with a dark obsession stalking Christine is not in doubt; he is standing here before you." Erik bowed his head slightly. "However, there is no need to connect that man, consumed as he was with jealousy and hate, with Erik Claudin, chorus master of the Opera Populaire. You may tell your tale up to the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_, when the Phantom, scared away by your ingenious plan, failed to make his appearance and Christine's tutor took the stage instead."

The Vicomte shook his head. "No, it would never work. The whole affair is too fantastic to be believed."

"Then _make_ it believable!" Exasperated, Erik ran a hand through his hair, adding to its already dishevelled appearance. "Use your imagination, limited though it may be. I thought the two of you used to sit in your parents' attic during thunderstorms, telling one another lurid Scandinavian folk tales?"

"Good grief, is there nothing you haven't told him?" Raoul demanded, rounding on Christine. She flapped a hand at him, thinking furiously. _Could_ it work? It was a strange story to be sure, but the detail would be not in what they chose to put in, but what they left out...

"Well, Christine?" asked Erik. "What do you say?"

"I say..." Making a decision she looked up, chin tilted determinedly. "I say we give it a try."


	52. Speaking Out

**SPEAKING OUT**

"You are quite sure you wish to do this?" Olivier Fontaine asked, taking Christine's hand and leading her to one of the chairs that had been set out by the window. The managers had graciously suggested their office as neutral ground in which the interview could take place, though it was obvious whose idea that had been when Monsieur Marigny reluctantly made a pile of his paperwork and dropped it into a drawer, grumbling all the way. "There is still time to back out without losing face."

She shook her head. "Thank you, but Monsieur Claudin believe this is the best way to remove our tormentor and I agree with him."

"As does the Vicomte, it would appear." Beaming, Fontaine turned to Raoul and bowed. "Allow me to say how pleased I am to welcome you back to the Opera Populaire, Monsieur. It must be quite like old times to be in this room once more."

Raoul smiled thinly. "Oh, yes. Add a couple of black-bordered notes on your blotter and have an irate soprano storm through the door and I might never have left."

The manager laughed, and then looked faintly embarrassed when no one else did. "Well, there should be everything here that you need. Shall I ask Remy to procure some coffee..?"

"Thank you, that would be most kind," Christine told him and he hurried off, leaving the two old friends alone. She sat down and regarded her ex-fiancé. "I do hope you're not going to allow your dislike of Erik to colour your story; we must all be as one upon this."

Setting down his hat and gloves on the desk Raoul took out a handkerchief and dusted off the seat of one of the other chairs before sitting. "Never fear, Christine, I will keep to the script. I have no desire for the debacle here to hang over my head for the rest of my life like some dreadful sword of Damocles." He watched the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as it fell through the slats of the blind. "But you are right, I _don't_ like Erik and I know the feeling is mutual. However, I will refrain from attempting to do him harm as long as he offers me the same consideration."

She sighed. "I wish you would try to see past all of that."

"The man tried to kill me on more than one occasion, if you recall."

"Raoul, he did not try to kill you," Christine objected.

"Well, he damn near broke my wrist," he said, cradling the appendage that had come off worse in an encounter with the Punjab lasso. "He nearly _did_ kill you, and frightened you out of your wits..." Frustrated, he shook his head sharply. "I really don't know how you can look at him with such devotion when you know what he has done, what he has done to _you_."

"I have forgiven him all of that. I wish that you could do the same."

"Little Lotte, still the kind-hearted optimist." Raoul looked at her fondly. "You always did see the best in everyone."

Christine opened her mouth, but she was saved a response when the office door opened and Erik entered the room, Didier Tolbert close behind him. The journalist appeared even younger beside the imposing figure of the Phantom, quivering from either nerves or excitement, a broad smile plastered onto his face and a notebook at the ready. He was smartly-dressed, in a dark blue suit that was just a shade too big for him, the cuffs of jacket and trousers slightly too long, as though he had borrowed it specially for the occasion. His eager aspect reminded Christine of Bruno when he wanted a stick thrown for him.

Behind them came another man carrying a bulky contraption covered with a cloth that, when it was set down and stood upon its four legs she realised was a camera; though she had seen one occasionally when Monsieur Lefevre invited the press to announce the coming season the lenses had always been trained upon Carlotta and Piangi and this was her first experience of seeing one up close. Seeing her interest Tolbert said quickly,

"I hope you don't mind, Mademoiselle; I was just telling Monsieur Claudin that I have secured a large advance from _La Monde_ and they have requested a photograph to accompany the interview. Eustache here is an expert with the camera."

The man addressed as Eustache glanced up from his apparatus with a toothy grin. "It's always a pleasure to photograph a beautiful woman."

Blushing, Christine glanced at Erik, who was looking uncomfortable. While the two press men were setting things up a secretary arrived with the ordered coffee and in the ensuing bustle she took the opportunity to ask, "Are you all right with this? We can tell them no if - "

"And allow me to look like a coward and a fool?" A tiny smile turned up the visible corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared. "No, I will endure it. If nothing else, it may stop the gossip concerning my appearance that I believe is still circulating in some quarters."

"I think we are ready to begin," Tolbert announced. He waited for them all to take their seats, Erik and Raoul on either side of Christine, as far away from one another as possible, before settling his notebook upon his knee and poising his pencil above a clean sheet of paper. After a pregnant pause he posed his first question: "The Opera Populaire is relatively young; how did these rumours of a 'Phantom' come about?"

* * *

"...and so, I devised a plan to trap this madman and free Mademoiselle Daae from his constant and unwelcome attentions," Raoul said, adding with a grimace, "Though they may have denied it since, the managers at the time gave me their wholehearted support."

Tolbert scribbled furiously. "And this plan... it concerned the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant _demanded by the 'Phantom'?"

"We had little choice but to comply; he had already caused thousands of francs worth of damage to the auditorium when he released the chandelier, and he threatened worse."

"We still don't know exactly what happened when the chandelier fell," Christine interjected quickly. "An investigation revealed that the chains securing it were in poor repair."

"But it is generally believed that the Phantom took advantage of circumstances," Raoul countered. "It was our intention to allow the man to believe his opera would be performed and take him captive when he attempted to leave after the final curtain call. Unfortunately, though we had a marksman trained upon box five all evening, our quarry failed to appear. I can only assume that someone made him aware of our plans."

"The ballet mistress? She was the one who delivered the infamous notes, I believe," Tolbert said, frowning.

"We don't know. But Madame Giry denies contacting the Phantom," Christine told him. "She was also coerced by him into doing his bidding and though she tried to warn Monsieur le Vicomte and the managers against such a dangerous plan she was never his accomplice."

The journalist nodded. "And how did you come to be caught up in all of this, Monsieur Claudin? You would seem to have been wise in keeping your distance up to this point."

Erik sat up straight, his attention, which had been directed at the posters advertising past glories which lined the office walls, now firmly upon Tolbert. "I had been Mademoiselle Daae's teacher for some time, having undertaken her tuition after hearing her sing during a visit to my cousin. I was quite transfixed by her voice, and asked Madame Giry if Christine might wish to hone such a glorious instrument by taking formal training." He smiled and Christine returned it; though the details were deliberately vague, she knew that the story was quite true. "As she was occupied most of the day with rehearsals for the corps de ballet, I came to the Opera in the evenings to work with her."

"And you were aware of the distress the attentions of this 'Phantom' were causing?"

"I suggested that she inform the authorities, and did my best to be available should she need my assistance. Much has been made of her so-called 'disappearance' on the night of the gala, but the truth is rather more mundane: after such sudden promotion and acclaim, not to mention a surprise meeting with a friend she had not seen for several years - " Erik glanced at Raoul, who inclined his head " – she became overwrought and, knowing her tendency to nervous collapse, I made sure that I was waiting for her at the stage door. When she found herself incapable of enduring any more pressure I escorted her home."

"And the preparation for _Don Juan Triumphant_... you helped her there as well?" Tolbert asked.

"Of course. It was a difficult piece, rather ahead of its time in composition." Erik ignored the inelegant snort made by the Vicomte, who at a glare from Christine hastily sobered. "She needed considerable assistance with the role. In the end it was fortunate that I did know the work fairly well, as the Primo Uomo abandoned his role halfway through the performance."

"Ah, yes, Ubaldo Piangi. Well, at least there we can be certain the 'Phantom' had no hand in _his_ disappearance as he and La Carlotta were reportedly alive and well and leading the company at the Teatro La Fenice in _The Marriage of Figaro _last month," the reporter observed with a smile.

"Signora Guidicelli threw one of her tantrums and decided to walk out; Piangi being the faithful soul he is, he followed her, leaving the opera quite suddenly bereft of a Don Juan."

"I see." Tolbert's pencil flew across the paper. "And you made a decision to step into the breach, as it were?"

"Indeed. As I was unable to secure a ticket due to the notoriety of the piece, Madame Giry agreed with the stage manager that I could watch from the wings." Erik spread his hands helplessly. "What can I say, Monsieur, but that it was pure instinct and a desire to save the show that led me to snatch up the cloak Piangi had thrown to the floor during his departure and walk onto the stage."

Tolbert looked at Christine, eyebrows raised. "And you realised your tutor had taken Signor Piangi's place?"

"Immediately," she replied. "Even were the physical differences not so obvious, I would know Monsieur Claudin's voice anywhere."

"And yet the men waiting to catch the 'Phantom' were apparently unaware of the substitution." The journalist frowned. "Had it not occurred to you, Monsieur le Vicomte, that the very man you wished to catch might have tried something similar? It would have given him unfettered access to Mademoiselle Daae, and the perfect opportunity to snatch her away."

"We did not imagine that even the Phantom would try something so blatantly arrogant as to take the stage in the middle of his own opera," Raoul said, and Christine surreptitiously smacked Erik's hand when she caught him smirking.

"But your marksman thought differently, did he not? He fired and shot Monsieur Claudin in the shoulder."

"A simple and unfortunate case of mistaken identity. Monsieur Claudin - " Raoul glanced at Erik, who stared impassively back " – was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"And do you hold Monsieur le Vicomte's actions against him?" Tolbert asked Erik. "Forgive me, but I can detect a little tension between you."

"I do not blame Monsieur le Vicomte for my injury," Erik said. "He was only doing what he thought was right to protect Mademoiselle Daae. I would have done the same myself. In fact," he added, and Raoul's eyes widened in surprise at his next words, "I have de Chagny to thank for my continued existence; he was quick to help once he realised what had happened and procured medical assistance at his own expense, which most would have refused to do for a complete stranger. In many respects I owe him my life. Any tension you may observe is the natural rivalry of two men who happen to care very deeply about the same woman; I count myself fortunate in the extreme that she has chosen to accept my humble suit when she could have had so much more."

Tolbert's head was down as he meticulously noted every word, and he therefore missed the completely baffled expression on Raoul's face at such an unexpected compliment from the man who was once his enemy. "You admit to a rivalry over Mademoiselle Daae, but I assume from the mere fact that you are sitting here together that the rumours of the Vicomte being behind the recent attack upon your person are untrue..?"

"Absolutely. I bear no malice towards Monsieur Claudin," Raoul said firmly. "I am a man of honour, Monsieur, and a de Chagny would never stoop so low as to have a man beaten almost to death in his name."

"And the 'Phantom'?" the journalist asked. "I take it no more has been heard from him?"

"One of the tenors claimed to have heard voices a few weeks ago, but that was put down to a hoax perpetrated by his colleagues," said Christine. "They do have a habit of playing tricks upon one another and theatre folk are always superstitious. Had the Phantom not appeared some other explanation for every lost powder puff or broken piece of scenery would have been found."

"Of course." Tolbert smiled and he sat forwards in his chair, face suddenly alight. "I have always wondered... do you actors really say 'The Scottish Play' rather than Macb - "

"Yes," Erik interrupted quickly, adding in a voice full of foreboding, "Never speak the name of The Scottish Play, Monsieur. You may have to pay a fearful penalty."

"And he would know how to inflict a terrible forfeit," Raoul added in a surprisingly light tone. "I'd do as he says if I were you."

The young journalist laughed. "In that case I shall make sure I never give Monsieur Claudin cause to chastise me." Carefully he closed his notebook and leaned back, tucking his pencil away in a pocket of his jacket. "I am extremely grateful to you, Mademoiselle, Messieurs. You have been most candid, and I hope as much as you all do that revealing the true story of the 'Phantom of the Opera' will convince those with a sinister and self-serving agenda to think again. This is the tale all of Paris has been desperate to hear, and I am so pleased you decided to choose me over more experienced reporters to share it with the rest of the world."

"Experienced reporters... I thought that you were an investigative journalist?" Christine asked as they all got to their feet. Eustache was hovering near his camera and checking his watch. "Have you never been published before?"

"Oh, I have indeed, but just small pieces, really; theatre reviews and the like," Tolbert admitted. "I've been trying to get into more serious journalism for a while, but sadly it's not been easy. The seasoned hacks tend to resent interlopers, trespassers on what they see as their territory."

"If you have been reporting on the arts that is no bad thing," Erik remarked. "It shows you are a man of intelligence. I take it your interest in our story stemmed from there?"

"I could not stand to see Mademoiselle Daae so maligned." Turning to Christine, Tolbert smiled shyly. "I have long admired you, Mademoiselle. You have deserved none of Béringer's accusations, and I wanted to put things right if I could."

Christine felt her face grow hot. "I have done little worth admiring, Monsieur. My career until recently has been fairly undistinguished."

"You do yourself a disservice, Mademoiselle!" the reporter exclaimed, horrified.

"Indeed she does," Erik agreed.

"From the moment I first saw you on the stage, when you were rehearsing _Romeo et Juliet_, I was transfixed," Tolbert continued. "Such grace and poise! I had eyes for none of the other ballerinas. And you were so kind, so gracious when I presented you with a yellow rose at the stage door... though we spoke for barely a moment that is one of my happiest memories."

"I..." For a moment Christine could find no words. Standing as they were out of Tolbert's eye line she saw Erik and Raoul exchange a puzzled glance; Raoul shrugged and Erik shook his head. "Thank you, Monsieur," she said eventually and Tolbert beamed.

* * *

"I suppose we never stop to think how our smallest actions affect those around us," Christine remarked later. "I had altogether forgotten him."

"I confess that I am not sure how he saw a perfectly poised ballerina in you, my dear," Erik said, arching an amused eyebrow. "You were a _little_ uncoordinated."

"Christine is a beautiful dancer," Raoul objected loyally. "She is very light on her feet."

"I'm not, Raoul, not really. Sometimes I'm horribly clumsy." She laughed. "And it's worse; that rehearsal may have been the one where I lost my balance during a pirouette and collided with Meg. The whole line went down one by one like a row of falling dominoes! Madame Giry was furious; she had me doing extra practise for a month."

Erik looked thoughtful. "I do seem to remember something about that. When you came to your lesson one evening you were limping..."

"...because Giselle trod on my foot when we were all trying to right ourselves," Christine finished for him. "I was late and you were very stern with me."

There was a sigh, and they both turned to find that Raoul was shaking his head. "I never really stood a chance, did I?" he asked with a wry smile. "There is a whole other world inside that building, one in which I was never included."

"Oh, Raoul." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek; Erik frowned in disapproval so she did the same to him which mollified him somewhat. "I'm glad you weren't; you gave me some normality when I needed it most."

Raoul blushed but looked pleased. "I'm glad I was of some service to you, at least."

"You always have been, you know that. But let's not get into all that again." Cheekily Christine pulled Erik's watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and, evading its owner's hands, flicked open the lid. "We've time before the curtain rises to have some dinner," she announced, tucking the watch back where it belonged. "The Cafe de l'Opera is just round the corner and their bouillabaisse is delicious; will you come, Raoul, or do you have somewhere else you must be?"

"Philippe is expecting me, but not for at least another hour." Grimacing, Raoul rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm going to have to tell him about the interview; he won't be happy that the family name is going to be all over the press again."

"Get him roaring drunk first," Erik suggested. "At least then he won't remember in the morning."

"Thank you, Monsieur, but if you don't mind I think I'll accept family advice from someone with more experience," Raoul replied, with more levity than candour in his tone. "You can hardly - "

"Ah, the delectable Mademoiselle Daae and her two suitors. Is there something you would like to tell my very devoted and curious readers?" At the sound of the oily, familiar voice, Christine spun around. Behind them, leaning on a nearby lamppost, was Francois Béringer, cigarette dangling from his lips and a rumpled notepad in his hand. With a leer he tipped his fraying shapeless hat to her. "Well?" he enquired. "I see one man's obviously not enough for you. A Vicomte _and_ a Phantom; quite a catch for any girl."

"You blackguard," Raoul snapped, fingers clenching into fists at his side. "You will pay for that slur; I demand satisfaction!" He stepped forwards and Christine wondered for a brief moment if he would slap Béringer across the face with his gloves but thankfully Erik grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him back.

"Don't be such an idiot," the Phantom hissed.

Raoul struggled free, trying to smooth down his crumpled collar. "Are you just going to stand there and allow him to insult Christine?" he demanded.

"If you challenge him to a duel you not only make yourself look ridiculous but also give him more ammunition!" Erik retorted. "Think for once in your life!"

Béringer laughed. "Oh, dear, oh, dear. What have you got yourself into?" he asked Christine conversationally.

Mind working quickly, an idea forming, she caught hold of both Erik and Raoul, much to their mutual surprise, linking her arms through theirs. With a brilliant smile she announced, "Actually, I know exactly what I've got myself into. You might be interested to know that we're living quite happily in a ménage-a-trois out in Pigalle; Raoul has me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Erik on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays anything goes; it's all very scandalous and louche. In fact, one of those avant garde 'Impressionist' artists has enquired whether he can paint a portrait of me without my clothes and I've accepted."

"Christine!" Raoul protested in a strained voice. He had gone a rather queer colour. Erik on the other hand kept silent, lips twitching; evidently having divined what she was doing. "Christine, what on earth are you talking about..?"

"Shhh, Raoul! I'm sorry, but you knew it all had to come out into the open sometime," Christine told him. "We can't keep living this double life."

"Think of my brother..!" he moaned, not realising how his misunderstanding was adding to the performance.. "He'll cut me off without a penny!"

"He would have read about it soon enough anyway," Erik said, and Béringer looked suspicious.

"Read about it? Where?" he demanded sharply. "Who have you been talking to?"

Christine gave him an innocent stare. "There is more than one reporter in Paris, surely, Monsieur? You cannot be privy to _all_ the juicy gossip."

"Who? Who knows about this?" Béringer stepped forwards, face contorted in fury. Almost as one, Erik and Raoul closed ranks, shielding Christine from his rage. "You can't do this to me... your story was mine. _Mine_!"

Pulling away from his fiancée, Erik drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the journalist with contempt. "I think you will find that our story belongs to no one but the Vicomte, Mademoiselle Daae and myself," he said, "and we do not choose to share it with a man who has done his best to shame and humiliate us. You will just have to read about it in next week's _La Monde_ like everyone else." With that, he pointedly turned his back upon Béringer, who was gobbling with wordless anger and looking as though he might suffer an apoplectic stroke, and Raoul and Christine did the same.

"Christine, what did you tell him that ridiculous story for?" Raoul asked, anxiety making his voice rather high-pitched. "When Philippe reads it he'll kill me!"

Smiling, Christine shook her head. "Oh, Raoul."

"You are an extremely convincing actress, my dear," Erik said, and there was pride dancing in his eyes. "Whatever happened to that shy girl I used to tutor?"

"She grew up," she told him, the smile becoming a grin. "Do you think we've done it, that it's all over?"

He glanced over his shoulder to where Béringer was stamping on his notebook. "Only time will tell. And now, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, shall we go to dinner?" Erik enquired, crooking one elbow and offering his arm to Christine who took it once more with a curtsy. "I think we've earned it."

"Oh, yes, please," she said, and Raoul, still looking hopelessly confused, nodded. "I don't know about you, but I'm absolutely starving."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

We'll be moving forward in time slightly next week. I'm on holiday but I hope to have wi-fi in the hotel and be able to post your usual Friday update. See you then! :)


	53. Monsieur et Madame Opera Ghost

**Author's Note:**

Goodness, I've just realised I've been posting this story for a year! Though I didn't plan it this way, it seems appropriate that this particular chapter should fall on the anniversary.

And it's a bit of a monster chapter this week! It's taken a fair while to get here and I know some people have been waiting for this since the beginning.. I hope you enjoy it. :)

* * *

**MONSIEUR ET MADAME OPERA GHOST**

"Erik, for the love of God have some pity on me and sit down! If you don't stop pacing I swear I'll hit you over the head and sit on you until the ladies arrive," James Patterson-Smythe declared with a determined expression, hefting his walking stick in one hand. "You're enough to drive a man to complete distraction!"

"I would dearly like to see you try," Erik snarled, taking another turn about the little waiting room. He couldn't remember the last time he had been in such a state, wound so tightly he feared he might snap at any moment. Pulling out his watch he checked the dial for the tenth time in as many minutes. She was late, surely? Why wasn't she here yet... had she finally changed her mind? The little voice in his head that had spent the last forty years constantly telling him he was unworthy of love, that there must have been a reason why his mother despised him and his father startled when he entered the room, piped up once more: _Her eyes have been opened... she's seen de Chagny again, seen what she could have had, what she could have been... why would she want to shackle herself to a hideous wretch like you? She's probably a hundred miles away by now..._

James frowned at him. "I'm quite happy to take you on; I used to box for my college, you know," he said, and sighed when Erik failed to respond. "Please, just come and sit down. Christ, I've seen men nervous before they get hitched but you're just like a cat on hot bricks. Any more of this and you'll work yourself into a frenzy and I'll have to call a doctor. Teddy will kill me and I doubt if Christine will appreciate a forcibly-sedated husband on her wedding night."

_Wedding night_... With a despairing groan Erik sank into the chair beside his friend, dropping his head into his hands. Jimmy reached into the pocket of his morning coat and withdrew a hip flask, wordlessly waggling it in front of Erik's face; he found himself accepting the Dutch courage, spluttering as the whisky burned the back of his throat. "Thank you," he coughed, fumbling for a handkerchief.

"It'll all be over in a few hours," Jimmy soothed. He took a swig from the flask himself and it vanished back into his pocket. "I don't know why we go through all this fuss just to a get a piece of paper telling us we can legally cohabit; might as well just fill in a form and have it stamped yes or no, but I suppose the women enjoy all the display."

"There is the religious aspect," Erik pointed out.

"I suppose, but that's not essential here, is it? You lot made marriage a civil contract a hundred years ago."

"It is important to Christine." And because it meant so much to her he had reluctantly agreed to speak with the priest who would be conducting their blessing at the little church of St Marguerite in Neuilly. Erik had not set foot inside a sacred building in many years; even as he passed over the threshold he had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. A sinner such as himself did not belong in a church; had he made a confession he would not know where to begin, which transgression to seek absolution for first. Father Jérôme, a stocky, round-faced man with the physique of a prize-fighter and the calm of an Eastern mystic, sensed his unease and had led him to the vestry, away from the accusatory eyes of the saints and apostles. They spoke for a long time, the priest making no judgements and offering few homilies, a far cry from the churchmen of Erik's childhood; he could still recall the fire in the eyes of the Jesuit his mother had called to the house in an attempt to exorcise the evil spirit she believed resided within his poor little body, still hear the man's harsh voice as he chanted Latin incantations, his spittle flecking the huge, leather-bound Bible thrust before him as protection against this child of the Devil. He shuddered at the thought, pushing the memories to the back if his mind where they belonged. He would not think of his mother today. Much to his surprise, Father Jérôme had been understanding of his dilemma, listening gravely to the curtailed explanation he gave for his disillusionment with the Church, and despite himself he came away quite liking the man. "Though I know she would forgo it if I asked, she will not truly be happy if she is not married with God's blessing."

James leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. "We all have to make some sacrifices."

"That is not one I wished to ask of her." Erik looked down at his hands. "Even if it involves facing demons of my own."

"A few skeletons in your closet, are there?" Jimmy's eyebrow flicked upwards and his voice took on the interested tone that meant he thought a little gossip might be in the offing.

Erik laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. He glanced at his watch, wishing that Christine would hurry before he entirely lost his nerve. "You have no idea, James," he said, "No idea at all."

"You love to play the man of mystery, don't you? Is that why none of your relatives are attending this afternoon – you didn't tell them you were getting married to preserve your enigmatic facade?" Jimmy asked. "Don't think I haven't noticed that your house is entirely devoid of family pictures."

"It is very hard to invite the dead to a wedding," Erik told him sourly, which had the desired effect of silencing the American for a few moments.

In truth, he could hardly believe that they were actually sitting there in a tiny side room in the Hôtel de Ville, waiting for his bride to arrive, a registrar somewhere beyond with the necessary documents to tie him and Christine together for the rest of their lives. The past few weeks had passed so quickly they were virtually indistinguishable; _Die Fledermaus_ had gone down well with the summer patrons and Christine even played Rosalinde for a week when Theodora developed a late summer cold. Marigny and Fontaine were ecstatic with the receipts, the newspapers were asking why La Daae was not given more starring roles and Erik and Reyer's new ballet was such a success that the music shops were besieged by customers seeking a copy of the score. Amidst all of this there had been suit fittings for himself and James, new dresses for Antoinette and Meg, the wedding gown to be cleaned and mended, flowers to be ordered and a buffet organised for the reception; after much deliberation it was decided to ask the guests back to the new house and Erik was startled to be knocked up by Madame Giry that morning at first light demanding a key so that she could get in later to lay out the food before they returned from the church. His head had barely stopped spinning since; his hands trembled so much when he tried to fasten his cravat or do up his cufflinks that Jimmy was forced to offer his assistance and he had only just managed to drink a cup of coffee without spilling it all over himself. Though he was reluctant to admit it, Erik was grateful to his new friend for staying the night and attempting to calm his nerves, though he had demurred at Jimmy's suggestion they both take advantage of the soporific qualities of a bottle of Scotch.

Thankfully, after the publication of Didier Tolbert's interview in _Le Monde_, no more had been heard of Francois Béringer and Erik fervently hoped they would be spared his noxious presence later at the church. Tolbert informed them gleefully that Béringer attempted to sell a piece claiming Christine was living in a bohemian enclave in Pigalle, sharing herself between two men and posing nude for the delectation of the artistic community but even the editor of _Le Figaro_ drew the line at printing such a ludicrous story; the fact that Raoul, on Jimmy's advice, had threatened the man with legal action over the accusation that he had been the instigator of the attack upon Erik just put the icing on the cake. The thoughts of the Comte de Chagny over all of this were still unknown, and the Vicomte returned to sea shortly after the interview appeared in public. The feeling of relief was palpable, but Erik found himself reluctant to relax just yet; though he might have left his cellars, the Phantom was still able to haunt him.

Wanting to pace again but not wishing to provoke James into attempting some indignity upon his person, he picked up the fedora lying on the chair beside him, placing it in his lap for a moment before nerves overcame him once more and he fell to twirling the brim through his fingers. Though his tailor had looked askance and been affronted when he refused a polished top hat like that Jimmy held on his knee to accompany his formal dove grey suit, Erik could not bring himself to abandon his old friend, feeling exposed without the wide, soft brim to partially conceal his mask. The white porcelain was reflected like a half moon in the gleaming leather of his boots and he glanced up to find the clerk seated at the desk in the corner watching him curiously. Erik shot him a glare and the man hurriedly returned to his work.

"They're here," Jimmy announced suddenly, getting to his feet. Listening hard Erik realised he could hear voices in the corridor outside and to his great shame was convinced that if he stood now his knees would give way. It was an utterly ridiculous situation: the man who not so long ago held an entire Opera House in his thrall, had them all terrified of his every word, was reduced to a quivering wreck by his impending marriage to the woman he loved!

The clerk rose from his seat and ducked outside, returning a few moments later to beckon and say, "This way, Messieurs; all is ready for you."

* * *

The room set aside for civil marriages was large but sparsely-furnished. The architect in Erik wondered to what use it had been put before, as the gilded mouldings and Trompe l'oleil ceiling fresco suggested grander things. Freestanding arrangements of white roses and ribbons flanked the table behind which stood the registrar, a neat little man with an outrageous waxed moustache and meticulously-parted hair, and facing him four rows of red velvet-upholstered seats had been set out with an aisle between them. Only two of these were occupied, by Theodora Merriman and Antoinette Giry, both of whom stood as the men approached them; Teddy was barely visible beneath the most enormous hat Erik had ever seen, a ridiculous feathered confection the approximate size of a cartwheel precariously pinned to one side of her piled chestnut hair. Erik thought she might tip over at any minute from the uneven distribution of the weight. Beside her Madame Giry was as prim and severe as usual, though she had exchanged her black for midnight blue; her hat was as tiny as Teddy's was huge, a little pillbox creation embellished with a net veil. She was smiling as he and James took their places, and reached out to take his hand.

"I never thought I'd see this day," she said quietly, a tear shining in her eye.

Erik lifted a finger to gently wipe it away. "You disapproved, if I recall."

"I know." Antoinette shook her head. "I'm happy to have been wrong."

"Shhh, don't let anyone hear you say that," he said with a lop-sided grin. "You have a reputation to maintain, after all."

"You're looking very swish, Maestro," Teddy announced, before Madame could respond. She winked. "I just might have to fight Christine for you."

Erik felt himself flush, embarrassed that she should take notice of his appearance. Mercifully James interrupted, demanding, "Teddy, where on God's green earth did you find that hat? I've seen smaller baseball pitches!"

The registrar cleared his throat. "Mesdames et Messieurs... if we might begin..?"

There were murmurs of apology and shuffling about as they all returned to their appropriate positions. Erik found himself holding his breath, clenching his fists around his suddenly sweating palms as the registrar raised a hand in signal to the ushers at the doors; there was a moment's pause and then, to the accompaniment of a piano, the doors were opened and Christine made her entrance on the arm of Monsieur Reyer, Meg following behind. Though her face was obscured by the veil, she looked stunning; he had gazed upon the dress so many times as it hung on the mannequin in his subterranean house, but such moments could never have prepared him for the sight of the flesh and blood Christine wearing the wedding gown he had designed. He was glad of the countless hours he had put into its creation, the determination that it should be absolutely perfect; it accentuated her curves and her tiny waist, the full lace flounces of the skirt moving gracefully with her every step. One little hand rested on Reyer's arm; the other held a bouquet of pink and ivory roses interspersed with trailing orange blossom to match the decorations on her headdress.

He was sure he must be staring, open-mouthed like a simpleton as they came to the end of the aisle and Reyer, beaming from ear to ear with pride, handed Christine over to him. Meg, a vision in rose-pink satin, her gleaming golden curls caught up in a coronet of fresh flowers, fussed about with her friend's train for a few moments before taking the bouquet Christine handed to her and scurrying to one side, dabbing at eyes that welled up despite her smile. Hesitating awkwardly for several seconds before he remembered what to do, with trembling fingers Erik reached up to lift the veil, carefully smoothing it back to reveal Christine's beautiful face, her lips lifted and eyes shining with joy. He thought that if God decided to strike him down at that very moment he would die a happy man.

The pianist ended his recital with a flourish, and after a brief pause the registrar began: "Mesdames et Messieurs, we are here today to join Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin and Christine Louise Daae together in matrimony..."

* * *

"...the giving and receiving of a ring."

Everyone looked at James expectantly. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and rummaged for a few seconds before withdrawing an empty hand with an apologetic expression. Christine looked horrified, and Erik glared. Behind them he heard Teddy hiss "_Jimmy_..!" before the fool produced the jeweller's boxes from his waistcoat instead, presenting them to the registrar with a deep bow and a cheeky grin. Erik made a mental note to harm the man in some fashion later for pulling such an inappropriate stunt; the registrar, who judging from his bored expression had obviously seen it all before, removed the rings from the boxes and laid them on the book in front of him.

"Now," he said, "If you will repeat after me: 'I, Erik, call upon these persons here present to witness that I take thee, Christine, as my lawfully wedded wife. I solemnly declare that I know not of any just impediment why I, Erik, should not be joined in matrimony to Christine'."

Erik's fingers were shaking almost uncontrollably as he took Christine's left hand in his and slipped the ring onto her finger, but his voice thankfully remained as level and confident as ever, obeying his commands as his traitorous body did not. Gaze fixed on her radiant face he almost forgot to let her hand go, releasing it only when the registrar turned to Christine, calling upon her to make the same declaration. Her hand barely wavered as she took the second gold ring between her finger and thumb; it was hardly fashionable for the groom to wear a ring but Erik had been adamant that he would do so, wanting the world to know that he had been accepted by the love of his life. He hardly heard the words as Christine held his hand in hers, gently squeezing his fingers in silent encouragement.

"I, Christine, call upon these persons here present to witness that I take thee, Erik, as my lawfully wedded husband. I solemnly declare that I know not of any just impediment why I, Christine, should not be joined in matrimony to Erik."

"You have made your vows to each other in the presence of these witnesses and to the requirement of the laws of the Republic," the registrar declared, his moustache raised to an alarming angle as he smiled broadly, so much so that Erik feared it might vanish right up the man's nose, "All that remains is for me to pronounce you man and wife." He paused for effect before adding, "You may kiss the bride."

All further thought of the man's moustache fleeing his mind, and accompanied by applause from their guests, Erik did just that.

* * *

"We've done it! We're actually married!"

Christine flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek as they stood on the pavement outside the Hôtel de Ville. Having already been embraced by Antoinette, Meg and Teddy, more women than had ever previously touched him during the whole of his life, Erik was reeling, and could not shake the feeling of complete dislocation that had swept over him after the ceremony had ended. Had he not been able to see the ring on Christine's finger and feel the weight of its twin on his own he might have convinced himself that the whole of the last half an hour had been a dream. A smile kept stealing onto his face and would not go away no matter how hard he tried; though he knew he was completely sober he still felt as if he had drunk a whole bottle of brandy and chased it down with a pint of claret.

"Well, Monsieur and Madame Claudin, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance," Theodora said with a grin, bobbing a curtsy that made her petite figure almost disappear from sight, obscured by the expansive brim of her hat. She rose gracefully, smile now tempered with genuine affection. "I hope you'll have a wonderful life together. Heck, what am I saying? I _know_ you will!"

"And she knows everything, so I'd believe her if I were you," Jimmy added, earning himself a whack on the arm with Teddy's handbag.

"Oh, Christine, it was beautiful," Meg sniffed, gathering up her best friend in a tight hug. Her make-up was running down her face in streaks and her nose was red but she insisted she was not upset, just overcome by the occasion. "I've never been - " She hiccupped " – so... so _happy_..!"

Antoinette came and took her daughter's arm, drawing her away before she could start bawling like a child. "Meg Giry..." she said with a sigh, casting her eyes heavenward. The carriages were returning to collect them, and she looked grateful for the distraction. This time the bride and groom would travel together to their blessing, followed by their witnesses in the second brougham. "Come along or we will be late for church."

"I can't believe it's really happened," Christine said as Erik handed her into the coach and sat down beside her. She looked at her hand in his, admiring her wedding ring, moving it this way and that to catch the light. "I'm Christine Claudin now; it was so funny trying not to write Daae in the register by mistake!"

"Do you regret it?" He couldn't help but ask the question, deep-seated doubt forcing the words to his lips. Those doubts, however, flew from him in an instant when she turned her glowing face to his and looked upon him with dark eyes so full of adoration that his heart jolted painfully in his chest.

"Not for a moment," she told him seriously, laying the palm of her free hand against his unmasked cheek and leaning in to kiss him long and deeply on the lips. "And you?" she asked, holding his gaze with a steady one of her own. "Do you regret any of this?"

"I could never regret any decision I took regarding you," Erik said, his mouth quite suddenly and inexplicably dry. "You are my life. Without you I cease to exist."

"In that case, mon amour, be prepared to live forever as I have no intention of letting you go," Christine declared, before pulling down the window blind and doing her best to kiss him quite senseless.

* * *

He spent the rest of the day walking on air.

The blessing passed in a blur of organ music, incense and Latin; Erik hardly recalled anything about it until much later, when he came to cherish the memory of that apparently endless walk down the aisle with his bride on his arm, to see the smiling faces of the friends and colleagues that had come to show their support and share in such a special day. The church was filled with flowers, their scent heady and intoxicating in the heat, and Reyer's friend, the organist from La Madeleine, played Pachelbel's _Toccata in F Major_ with the skill of a virtuoso; the sound of the instrument was perfect and Erik couldn't help wondering whether Father Jérôme would allow him to make use of it when the church was empty.

They stood there before the altar, the sunlight falling through stained-glass and scattering brilliant colour across Christine's dress like a handful of heavenly jewels; the words of the service meant little in his distracted state but somehow he managed to make the correct responses in the right places and give her no reason to be ashamed of him. It seemed almost seconds later that they were processing back towards the door, Mendelssohn's Wedding March from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ ringing in his ears. Before they reached the exit Christine paused slightly, a frown touching her forehead, and he realised she was looking into the very last pew, at the occupant almost completely hidden in the shadows.

"Who is that?" she whispered, and Erik peered into the gloom to see a woman sitting there, her black dress old-fashioned and shiny, her face obscured by a broad-brimmed hat swathed in a veil of thick net. The hands folded in her lap were encased in faded silk gloves, every part of her concealed; sensing their curiosity she turned away, staring straight ahead towards the altar and refusing to look in their direction again. Her fingers clenched the little bag she held so tightly that Erik was sure that beneath the gloves her knuckles must have been white.

"I have no idea," he replied when Christine called his name and he realised everyone had stopped behind them, unable to leave the church until they did. With one last glance back he covered Christine's hand with his own as it rested on his arm and by the time he led her out into the sunshine followed by the congratulations and rice liberally showered upon them by the company of the Opera Populaire he had forgotten all about the strange woman in black. Christine had insisted on inviting Didier Tolbert and the young journalist looked as pleased as punch to be there, dapper in a new suit that his earnings from their interview had obviously allowed him to buy. With him came the photographer Eustache, to whom Erik knew they had definitely not issued an invitation, but when it became clear that Tolbert wished to present them with a photograph of the occasion as a wedding gift they could not begrudge the man's attendance, however long it took him to arrange everyone to his satisfaction outside the church before he would press the shutter.

The party afterwards, inevitably given the occupation of the guests, became a rather riotous affair. Erik was sure some of his doubtless straight-laced middle class neighbours would not approve but he didn't care, content to observe from the sidelines with a glass of champagne in his hand. There was talk and music and plenty of laughter, the latter something he had never expected to hear in his home. It was a beautiful evening and the ballerinas (most of whom he was sure had only accepted the invitation Christine had offered because she didn't want anyone to feel left out for the free food and drink) sat on the grass in the garden, cackling together like a gaggle of geese and becoming progressively tipsier as the night wore on. The managers attended, and Olivier Fontaine insisted upon having the first dance with the bride, despite it being pointed out that he was usurping the groom's privilege and there was in any case no space for dancing with so many people in the house. Monsieur Marigny rolled his eyes at his partner's antics from his seat in the corner of the music room where he was discussing business with James Patterson-Smythe; apparently Jimmy never missed an opportunity to further a client's interests.

There was food galore; more than even the most ravenous of them could manage and crowned with the most enormous cake Erik had ever seen: a mountainous croquembouche made of cream-filled pastry puffs piled into a pyramid and covered with caramel and spun sugar. It made his teeth hurt just looking at it but the cries of appreciation from the guests when he and Christine cut into the monstrosity proved that he was evidently the only one. Toasts were drunk and speeches were made, thankfully lacking any embarrassing stories as he had only known his best man for two months, a fact which did not stop Jimmy claiming the customary kiss from the bridesmaid who, despite her mother's frown of disapproval, was only too happy to oblige.

As it grew later and the wine kept flowing Erik found himself seeing different sides of the people with whom he shared his daily life. Madame Marigny, a lady whom he had realised at the masquerade enjoyed a party far more than her husband, insisted upon taking her place on the piano stool and, though she was more than a little merry, proved to be an accomplished musician; the wrong notes she played either by accident or design were quite inspired, their cacophonous tune provoking much hilarity from the company. Christine, Teddy and Marie Durant gave an impromptu performance of Mozartian harmonies accompanied by Eugène Reyer on the piccolo, while in the dining room a flushed and wide-eyed Meg, egged on by Alphonse and Marius, attempted a demonstration of the scandalous can-can dance that was taking the cabarets on Montmartre by storm. They succeeded in getting a fine view of her ankles before a furious Madame Giry put a stop to it, pulling her daughter down from the table onto which she had climbed. Meg went reluctantly, exclaiming, "But Maman, they see more than that every time I wear my tutu - !" Erik smiled, and promised himself that he would have a word with Antoinette and remind her that Meg was no longer a child.

Gradually things wound down and people began to make their way unsteadily home, thanking them for their hospitality and wishing them future happiness together, leaving behind piles of dirty plates and a house that needed cleaning from top to bottom. Christine, tired but smiling, suggested they push it all into the kitchen and close the door, politely turning down Antoinette's offer to return the next morning to help them clear up.

"But it will take you hours to make the place tidy again," Madame objected. "Many hands make like work, after all."

Meg pulled a face. "Maman, I don't think they'll have much time for housework..." she said with a pointed glance towards the stairs.

"I don't..." Antoinette looked at Erik and Christine; Christine smiled sweetly and tightened her arm around his waist, her touch sending an involuntary shiver up his spine. The penny dropped, and he could have sworn it was the first time he had ever seen the ballet mistress blush. "Of course. How silly of me! You have far more important things to do," she said, and paused before adding, much to Meg's consternation, "But do at least put those plates in to soak before you start; if you leave the sauce too long it will never come off."

Christine hid her treacherous mouth behind her hand, leaving Erik to respond. "We won't forget, Annie," he told her solemnly.

"Come along, Maman." A mortified Meg tugged on her mother's hand, dragging her outside to where James and Teddy were waiting in the carriage to take them home. Christine and Erik managed to wave them off and shut the door before they both collapsed laughing.

Though he could not deny that he was filled with trepidation about what was to come between them, that long, eventful day had been the happiest day of Erik's life. He felt exhausted and elated at once, his blood singing and his nerves jangling. Everything was about to change beyond recognition, and though he would never admit it to anyone he was scared of what that might mean. It was some considerable time later when he stood one evening in the darkened garden with a glass of brandy, looking up at the stars that he found Father Jérôme's words from the blessing service returning to him:

"...I am the resurrection and the life..."

In that moment, surrounded by people who admired, respected and even loved him, his living bride at his side, Erik realised that the horror and solitude of his past was finally no more. The Devil's Child, the Living Corpse, the Phantom of the Opera... all were dead. From here his life began anew. Judged by his actions instead of his face, no longer dictated to by an accident of nature, he could at last become the person he had always dreamed of being.

He had been reborn. And he had his beautiful wife to thank for _his_ resurrection.


End file.
